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And thk passing shades of sadness 
Wearing even a welcome guise. 



'P(i£^c 262. 



Poems 



John G. Whittier 



VIGNETTE EDITION. WITH ONE HUNDRED NEW 
ILLUSTRATIONS 



William A/McCullough 



r,/^ 




ll-i.^"^ ':) 



NEW YORK 

FREDERICK A. STOKES COxMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



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Cop^dgbt, 1893, 
JB^ ifreDecick B. Stokes Compang. 






CONTENTS. 



MoGG Megone. page 

Part 1 1 

Part II 15 

Part III 50 

The Bridal of Pennacook 37 

I. The Merrimack 41 

II. The Bashaba 43 

HI. The Daughter 46 

IV. The Wedding 50 

V. The New Home . . 53 

VI. At Pennacool< 55 

VII. The Departure ........... 57 

viii. Song of Indian Women ......... 59 

Legendary. 

The Merrimack . 61 

The Norsemen . 64 

Cassandra Southwick 68 

Funeral Tree of the Sokokis 73 

St. John 77 

Pentucket 81 

The Familist's Hymn 84 

The Fountain 86 

The Exiles 9° 

The New Wife and the Old 98 

Voices of Freedom. 

Toussaint L'Ouverture 103 

The Slave-Ships 109 

Stanzas. Our Fellow-Countrymen in Chains 113 

The Yankee Girl 116 

To W. L. Garrison "8 

Song of the Free "9 

The Hunters of Men '2' 

Clerical Oppressors . '^3 

The Christian Slave '24 

Stanzas for the Times '27 

Lines, written on reading Governor Ritner's Message of 1836 . . .129 



VI Contents. 



PAGE 

Lines on Reading the " Pastoral Letter"' 131 

Lines, written for the Meeting of the Antislavery Society, at Chatham Street 

Chapel, N. Y., 1854 '34 

Lines, written for the Celebration of the Third Anniversary of British Eman- 
cipation, 1837 136 

Lines, written for the Anniversary Celebration of the First of August, at Mil- 
ton, 1846 137 

The Farewell of a Virginia Slave Mother to her Daughters sold into Southern 

Bondage 139 

The Moral Warfare 141 

The World's Convention 142 

New Hampshire 147 

The New Year : addressed to the Patrons of the Pennsylvania Freeman . 148 

Massachusetts to Virginia 154 

The Relic 159 

The Branded Hand 161 

Texas 163 

To Faneuil Hall 166 

To Massachusetts 167 

The Pine-Tree 169 

Lines, suggested by a Visit to the City of Washington in the 12th Month of 

1845 '70 

Lines, from a Letter to a Young Clerical Friend 174 

Yorktown i75 

Lines, written in the Book of a Friend 177 

The Curse of the Charter- Breakers 182 

The Slaves of Martinique 184 

The Crisis '88 

Miscellaneous. 

The Knight of St. John 191 

The Holy Land '93 

Palestine '95 

Ezekiel '97 

The Wife of Manoah to her Husband 200 

The Cities of the Plain . 203 

The Crucifixion 205 

The Star of Bethlehem 206 

Hymns 208 

The Female Martyr 212 

The Frost Spirit 214 

The Vaudois Teacher 215 

The Call of the Christian 218 

My Soul and I 219 

To a Friend, on her Return from Europe 226 

The Angel of Patience 228 

FoUen 229 

To the Reformers of England 232 

The Quaker of the Olden Time 234 



Contents. 



vu 



PAGE 

The Reformer 235 

The Prisoner for Debt 239 

Lines, written on reading several Pamphlets published by Clergymen against 

the Abolition of the Gallows 241 

The Human Sacrifice 243 

Democracy 248 

Randolph of Roanoke 251 

To Ronge 254 

Chalkley Hall 255 

To John Pierpont 257 

The Cypress-Tree of Ceylon 258 

A Dream of Summer ........... 260 

To 262 

Leggett's Monument 266 

Songs of Labor, and other Poems, 

Dedication 268 

The Ship-Builders 269 

The Shoemakers . 272 

The Drovers 274 

The Fishermen 277 

The Huskers 280 

The Corn-Song 282 

The Lumbermen 284 

Miscellaneous. 

The Angels of Buena Vista 290 

Forgiveness 293 

Barclay of Ury 293 

What the Voice Said ........... 297 

To Delaware 299 

Worship 299 

The Demon of the Study 301 

The Pumpkin ............ 304 

Extract from " A New England Legend" 505 

Hampton Beach ............ 308 

Lines, written on hearing of the Death of Silas Wright ol New York . .310 

Lines, accompanying Manuscripts presented to a Friend . . . 311 

The Reward 313 

Raphael 314 

Lucy Hooper 316 

Channing 318 

To the Memory of Charles B. Storrs 321 

Lines on the Death of S. Oliver Torrey 323 

A Lament 325 

Daniel Wheeler 326 

Daniel Neall 330 

To my Friend on the Death of his Sister 330 

Gone 332 



Contents. 



PAGE 

The Lake-side 333 

The Hill-top 335 

On receiving an Eagle's Quill from Lake Superior 337 

Memories 34' 

The Legend of St. Mark 343 

The Well of Loch Maree 345 

To my Sister 346 

Autumn Thoughts ........... 347 

Calef in Boston. — 1692 348 

To Pius IX 350 

Elliott 352 

Ichabod ! 353 

The Christian Tourists . 354 

The Men of Old 356 

The Peace Convention at Brussels 357 

The Wish of To-Day 359 

Our State 360 

All 's Well 36! 

Seed-Time and Harvest 361 

To A. K 363 

The Unquiet Sleeper 365 

Metacom 366 

The Murdered Lady 371 

The Weird Gathering 373 

The Black Fox 379 

The White Mountains 383 

The Indian's Tale 385 

The Spectre Ship 387 

The Spectre Warriors 390 

The Last Norridgewock ........... 392 

The Aerial Omens 394 

Notes • 397 



PROEM. 

I LOVE the old melodious lays 
Which softly melt the ages through, 

The songs of Spenser's golden days, 

Arcadian Sidney's silvery phrase, 
Sprinkling our noon of time with freshest morning dew. 

Yet, vainly in my quiet hours 
To breathe their marvellous notes I try ; 

I feel them, as the leaves and flowers 

In silence feel the dewy shov.ers. 
And drink with glad still Hps the blessing of the sky. 

The rigor of a frozen clime, 
The harshness of an untaught ear, 

The jarring words of one whose rhyme 

Beat often Labor's hurried time, 
Or Duty's rugged march through storm and strife, are here. 

Of mystic beauty, dreamy grace, 
No rounded art the lack supplies ; 

Unskilled the subtle lines to trace. 

Or softer shades of Nature's face, 
I view her common forms with unanointed eyes. 

Nor mine the seer-like power to show 
The secrets of the heart and mind ; 

To drop the plummet-line below 

Our common world of joy and woe, 
A more intense despair or brighter hope to find. 

Yet here at least an earnest sense 
Of human right and weal is shown ; 

A hate of tyranny intense. 

And hearty in its vehemence, 
As if my brother's pain and sorrow were my own. 

O Freedom ! if to me belong 
Nor mighty Milton's gift divine, 

Nor Marvell's wit and graceful song, 

Still with a love as deep and strong 
As theirs, I lay, like them, my Dest gifts on thy shrine ! 

Amesblkv, mh mo., 1847. 



POEMS 



John G. Whittikr 



MOGG MEGONE. 

[The story of Mogg Megone has been considered by the author only as a frame- 
work for sketches of the scenery of New England, and of its early inhabitants. In 
portraying the Indian character, he has followed, as closely as his story would ad- 
mit, the rough but natural delineations of Church, Mayhew, Charlevoix and Roger 
Williams ; and in so doing he has necessarily discarded much of the romance 
which poets and novelists have thrown around the ill-fated red man.] 

PART I. 

Who stands on that cliff, like a figure of stone, 
Unmoving and tall in the light of the sky, 
Where the spray of the cataract sparkles on high, 
Lonely and sternly, save Mogg Megone?' 
Close to the verge of the rock is he, 

While beneath him the Saco its work is doing. 
Hurrying down to its grave, the sea. 

And slow through the rock its pathway hewing ! 
Far down, through the mist of the falling river. 
Which rises up like an incense ever. 
The splintered points of the crags are seen, 
With water howling and vexed between. 
While the scooping whirl of the pool beneath 
Seems an open throat, with its granite teeth ! 

But Mogg Megone never trembled yet 
Wherever his eye or his foot was set. 
He is watchful : each form in the moonlight dim, 
Of rock or of tree, is seen of him : 



Mogg Megofie. 




Who stands on that cliff, 



STONE. 



He listens ; each sound from afar is caught, 
The faintest shi\fer of leaf and limb : 
But he sees not the waters, which foam and fret. 
Whose moonlit spray has his moccasin wet, — 
And the roar of their rushing, he hears it not. 

The moonlight, through the open bough 

Of the gnarl'd beech, whose naked root 

Coils like a serpent at his foot, 
Falls, checkered, on the Indian's brow. 
His head is bare, save only where 
Waves in the wind one lock of hair, 

Reserved for him, whoe'er he be. 
More mighty than Megone in strife, 

When breast to breast and knee to knee, 
Above the fallen warrior's life 
Gleams, quick and keen, the scalping-knife. 

Megone hath his knife and hatchet and gun, 
And his gaudy and tasselled blanket on : 



Mog^ 



^ Meg one. 



His knife hath a handle with gold inlaid, 
And magic words on its polished blade, — 
'T was the gift of Castine'^ to Mogg Megone, 
For a scalp or twain from the Yengees torn : 
His gun was the gift of the Tarrantine, 

And Modocawando's wives had strung 
The brass and the beads, which tinkle and shine 
On the polished breech, and broad bright line 

Of beaded wampum around it hung. 

What seeks Megone ? His foes are near, — 

Grey Jocelyn's^ eye is never sleeping. 
And the garrison lights are burning clear. 

Where Phillips'* men their watch are keeping. 
Let him hie him away through the dank river fog, 

Never rustling the boughs nor displacing the rocks, 
For the eyes and the ears which are watching for Mogg 

Are keener than those of the wolf or the fox. 

He starts, — there 's a rus- 
tle among the leaves : 
Another, — the click of 
his gun is heard ! 
A footstep,— is it the step 
of Cleaves, 
With Indian blood on 
his English sword } 
Steals Harmon^ down 
from the sands of 
York, 
With hand of iron and 

foot of cork ? 
Has Scamman, versed in 

Indian wile, 
For vengeance left his 

vine-hung isle.'"' 
Hark ! at that whistle, soft 
and low. 
How lights the eye of 
Mogg Megone ! 

A smile gleams o'er his dusky brow, — 
" Boon welcome, Johnny Bonython !" 

Out steps, with cautious foot and slow, 
And quick, keen glances to and fro, 

The hunted outlaw, Bonython V 
A low, lean, swarthy man is he, 




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The hunted outlaw, Bonython. 



Mogg Meg one. 



With blanket-garb and buskined knee, 

And naught of English fashion on ; 
For he hates the race from whence he sprung, 
And he couches his words in the Indian tongue. 

" Hush, — let the Sachem's voice be weak ; 

The water-rat shall hear him speak, — 

The owl shall whoop in the white man's ear, 

That Mogg Megone, with his scalps, is here !" 

He pauses, — dark, over cheek and brow, 

A fiush, as of shame, is stealing now : 

" Sachem !" he says, " let me have the land, 

Which stretches away upon either hand, 

As far about as my feet can stray 

In the half of a gentle summer's day, 

From the leaping brook® to the Saco river, — 
And the fair-haired girl, thou hast sought of me, 
Shall sit in the Sachem's wigwam, and be 

The wife of Mogg Megone forever." 

There 's a sudden light in the Indian's glance, 
A moment's trace of powerful feeling — 

Of love or triumph, or both perchance, 
Over his proud, calm features stealing. 

" The words of my father are very good ; 

He shall have the land, and water, and wood ; 

And he who harms the Sagamore John, 

Shall feel the knife of Mogg Megone; 

But the fawn of the Yengees shall sleep on my breast, 

And the bird of the clearing shall sing in my nest." 

" But, father !" — and the Indian's hand 

Falls gently on the white man's arm, 
And with a smile as shrewdly bland 

As the deep voice is slow and calm, — 
" Where is my father's singing-bird, — 

The sunny eye, and sunset hair.? 
I know I have my father's word. 

And that his word is good and fair ; 

But will my father tell me where 
Megone shall go and look for his bride ? — 
For he sees her not by her father's side." 

The dark, stern eye of Bonython 

Flashes over the features of Mogg Megone, 
In one of those glances which search within : 

But the stolid calm of the Indian alone 



Mogg Meg one. 



Remains where the trace of emotion has been. 
" Does the Sachem doubt ? Let him go with me, 
And the eyes of the Sachem his bride shall see." 

Cautious and slow, with pauses oft. 
And watchful eyes and whispers soft, 
The twain are stealing through the wood, 
Leaving thfi downward-rushing flood. 
Whose deep and solemn roar behind 
Grows fainter on the evening wind. 




W>^ 



The owl on his leafy cradle swung. 

Hark ! -is that the angry howl 

Of the wolf, the hills among ?— 
Or the hooting of the owl. 

On his leafy cradle swung } — 
Quickly glancing, to and fro, 
Listening to each sound they go 
Round the columns of the pine, 

Indistinct, in shadow, seeming 
Like some old and pillared shrine ; 
With the soft and white moonshine, 
Round the foliage- tracery shed 
Of each column's branching head, 

For its lamps of worship gleaming ! 
And the sounds awakened there, 

In the pine leaves flne and small, 

Soft and sweetly musical. 
By the fingers of the air. 
For the anthem's dying fall 
Lingering round some temple's wall I — 



Mogg Megone. 



Niche and cornice round and round 
Wailing like the ghost of sound ! 
Is not Nature's worship thus, 

Ceaseless ever, going on ? 
Hath it not a voice for us 

In tne thunder, or the tone 
Of the leaf-harp faint and small, 

Speaking to the unsealed ear 

Words of blended love and fear, 
Of the mighty Soul of all ? 



Naught had the twain of thoughts like these 

As they wound along through the crowded trees, 

Where never had rung the axeman's stroke 

On the gnarled trunk of the rough-barked oak ; — 

Climbing the dead tree's mossy log, 

Breaking the mesh of the bramble fine, 

Turning aside the wild grapevine, 
And lightly crossing the quaking bog 
Whose surface shakes at the leap of the frog, 
And out of whose pools the ghostly fog 

Creeps into the chill moonshine ! 
Yet, even that Indian's ear had heard 
The preaching of the Holy Word : 
Sanchekantacket's isle of sand 
Was once his father's hunting land. 
Where zealous Hiacoomes** stood, — 
The wild apostle of the wood, 
Shook from his soul the fear of harm, 
And trampled on the Powwaw's charm ; 
Until the wizard's curses hung 
Suspended on his palsying tongue, 
And the fierce warrior, grim and tall. 
Trembled before the forest Paul ! 



A cottage hidden in the wood, — 

Red through its seams a light is glowing, 
On rock and bough and tree-trunk rude, 

A narrow lustre throwing. 
" Who 's there ?" a clear, firm voice demands 

"Hold, Ruth, — 't is I, the Sagamore.'" 
Quick, at the summons, hasty hands 

Unclose the bolted door ; 
And on the outlaw's daughter shine 
The flashes of the kindled pine. 



Mogg Megone. 



Tall and erect the maiden stands, 

Like some young priestess of the wood, 
The freeborn child of Solitude, 
And bearing still the wild and rude, 
Yet noble trace of Nature's hands. 
Her dark brown cheek has caught its stain 
More from the sunshine than the rain ; 
Yet, where her long fair hair is parting, 
A pure white brow into light is starting ; 
And, where the folds of her blanket sever, 
Are a neck and bosom as white as ever 
The foam wreaths rise on the leaping river. 
But in the convulsive quiver and grip 
Of the muscles around her bloodless lip. 

There is something painful and sad to see; 
And her eye has a glance more sternly wild 
Than even that of a forest-child 

In its fearless and untamed freedom should be. 



Yet, seldom in hall or court are seen 
So queenly a form and so noble a mien, 

As freely and smiling she welcomes them there,— 
Her outlawed sire and Mogg Megone : 

" Pray, father, how does thy hunting fare } 

And, Sachem, say,— does Scamman wear,^ 
In spite of thy promise, a scalp of his own T' 
Hurried and light is the maiden's tone ; 

But a fearful meaning lurks within 
Her glance, as it questions the eye of Megone,— 

An awful meaning of guilt and sin !— 
The Indian hath opened his blanket, and there 
Hangs a human scalp by its long damp hair ! 
With hand upraised, with quick drawn breath, 
She meets that ghastly sign of death. 
In one long, glassy, spectral stare 
The enlarging eye is fastened there. 
As if that mesh of pale brown hair 

Had power to change at sight alone. 
Even as the fearful locks which wound 
Medusa's fatal forehead round. 

The gazer into stone. 
With such a look Herodias read 
The features of the bleeding head. 
So looked the mad Moor on his dead, 
Or the young Cenci as she stood, 
O'er-dabblcd with a father's blood ! 




The Indian hath opened his blanket. 



Mogg Megone. 



Look ! — feeling melts that frozen glance, 
It moves that marble countenance, 
As if at once within her strove 
Pit\- with shame, and hate with love. 
The Past recalls its joy and pain. 
Old memories rise before her brain, — 
The lips which love's embraces met. 
The hand her tears of parting wet, 
The voice whose pleading tones beguiled 
The pleased ear of the forest-child,— 
And tears she may no more repress 
Reveal her lingering tenderness. 

O, woman wronged can cherish hate 

More deep and dark than manhood may ; 
But when the mockery of Fate 

Hath left Revenge its chosen way. 
And the fell curse, which years have nursed, 
Full on the spoiler's head hath burst,— 
When all her wrong, and shame, and pain, 
Burns fiercely on his heart and brain, — 
Still lingers something of the spell 

Which bound her to the traitor's bosom,— 
Still, midst the vengeful fires of hell. 

Some flowers of old affection blossom. 

John Bonython's eyebrows together are drawn 
With a fierce expression of wrath and scorn,— 
He hoarsely whispers, " Ruth, beware ! 

Is this the time to be playing the fool,— 
Crying over a paltry lock of hair. 

Like a love-sick girl at school ?— 
Curse on it !— an Indian can see and hear: 
Away,— and prepare our evening cheer !" 

How keenly the Indian is watching now 
Her tearful eye and her varying brow,— 

With a serpent eye, which kindles and burns, 
Like a fiery star in the upper air : 
On sire and daughter his fierce glance turns :— 
" Has my old white father a scalp to spare .-^ 
For his young one loves the pale brown hair 
Of the scalp of an English dog far more 
Than Mogg Megone, or his wigwam floor ; 
Go,— Mogg is wise : he will keep his land, — 
And Sagamore John, when he feels with his hand, 
Shall miss his scalp where it grew before." 



lo Mogg Me gone. 

The moment's gust of grief is gone, — 

Tlie lip is clenched, — the tears are still, — 
God pity thee, Ruth Bonython ! 
With what a strength of will 
Are nature's feelings in thy breast, 
As with an iron hand, repressed ! 
And how, upon that nameless woe. 
Quick as the pulse can come and go, 
While shakes the unsteadfast knee, and yet 
The bosom heaves, — the eye is wet, — 
Has thy dark spirit power to stay 
The heart's wild current on its way ? 

And whence that baleful strength of guile. 
Which over that still working brow 
And tearful eye and cheek can throw 

The mockery of a smile ? 
Warned by her father's blackening frown, 
With one strong effort crushing down 
Grief, hate, remorse, she meets again 
The savage murderer's sullen gaze, 
And scarcely look or tone betrays 
How the heart strives beneath its chain. 

" Is the Sachem angry, — angry with Ruth, 
Because she cries with an ache in her tooth,'" 
Which would make a Sagamore jump and cry. 
And look about with a woman's eye ? 
No,— Ruth will sit in the Sachem's door 
And braid the mats for his wigwam floor. 
And broil his fish and tender fawn. 
And weave his wampum, and grind his corn, — 
For she loves the brave and the wise, and none 
Are braver and wiser than Mogg Megone !" 
The Indian's brow is clear once more : 

With grave, calm face, and half-shut eye, 
He sits upon the wigwam floor. 

And watches Ruth go by. 
Intent upon her household care ; 

And ever and anon, the while. 
Or on the maiden, or her fare. 
Which smokes in grateful promise there, 

Bestows his quiet smile. 

Ah, Mogg Megone ! — what dreams are thine, 
But those w^hich love's own fancies dress, — 
The sum of Indian happiness ! — 

A wigwam, where the warm sunshine 



Mogg Megone. 



11 



Looks in among the groves of pine, — 
A stream, where, round thy light canoe, 
The trout and salmon dart in view. 
And the fair girl, before thee now, 
Spreading thy mat with hand of snow 
Or plying, in the dews of morn, 
Her hoe amidst thy patch of corn. 




Is THE Sachem angry,— angry with Ruth?' 



Or offering up, at eve, to thee, 
Thy birchen dish of hominy ! 

From the rude board of Bonython, 
Venison and suckatash have gone, — 
For long these dwellers of ihe wood 
Have felt the gnawing want of food. 



12 Mogg Megone. 



But untasted of Ruth is the frugal cheer, — 

With head averted, yet ready ear, 

She stands by the side of her austere sire, 

Feeding, at times, the unequal fire 

With the yellow knots of the pitch-pine tree, 

Whose flaring light, as they kindle, falls 

On the cottage-roof, and its black log walls, 

And over its inmates three. 

From Sagamore Bonython's hunting flask 

The fire-water burns at the lip of Megone : 
" Will the Sachem hear what his father shall ask ? 

Will he make his mark, that it may be known, 
On the speaking-leaf, that he gives the land, 
From the Sachem's own, to his father's hand ?" 
The fire-water shines in the Indian's eyes. 

As he rises, the white man's bidding to do : 
" Wuttamuttata — weekan !'^ Mogg is wise, — 

For the water he drinks is strong and new, — 
Mogg's heart is great ! — will he shut his hand, 
When his father asks for a little land ?" — 
With unsteady fingers, the Indian has drawn 

On the parchment the shape of a hunter's bow, 
" Boon water, — boon water, — Sagamore John ! 

Wuttamuttata, — weekan ! our hearts will grow !" 
He drinks yet deeper, — he mutters low, — 
He reels on his bear-skin to and fro, — 
His head falls down on his naked breast, — 
He struggles, and sinks to a drunken rest. 

" Humph — drunk as a beast !" — and Bonython's brow 

Is darker than ever with evil thought — 
" The fool has signed his warrant ; but how 

And when shall the deed be wrought } 
Speak, Ruth ! why, what the devil is there, 
To fix thy gaze in that empty air ? — 
Speak, Ruth ! by my soul, if I thought that tear, 
Which shames thyself and our purpose here, 
Were shed for that cursed and pale-faced dog, 
Whose green scalp hangs from the belt of Mogg, 

And whose beastly soul is in Satan's keeping, — 
This — this!" — he dashes his hand upon 
The rattling stock of his loaded gun, — 

" Should send thee with him to do thy weeping I" 

*' Father!" — the eye of Bonython 
Sinks at that low, sepulchral tone, 



Mogg Meg one. 13 



Hollow and deep, as it were spoken 

By the unmoving tongue of death, — 
Or from some statue's lips had broken, — 

A sound without a breath ! 
" Father ! -my life I value less 
Than yonder fool his gaudy dress ; 
And how it ends it matters not, 
By heart-break or by rifle-shot ; 
But spare awhile the scoff and threat, — 
Our business is not finished yet." 

" True, true, my girl,— I only meant 
To draw up again the bow unbent. 
Harm thee, my Ruth ! I only sought 
To frighten off thy gloomy thought ; 
Come,— let 's be friends !" He seeks to clasp 
His daughter's cold, damp hand in his. 
Ruth startles from her father's grasp, 
As if each nerve and muscle felt, 
Instinctivelv, the touch of guilt, 
Through all their subtle sympathies. 

He points her to the sleeping Mogg : 
" What shall be done with yonder dog ? 
Scamman is dead, and revenge is thine,— 
The deed is signed and the land is mine ; 

And this drunken fool is of use no more, 
Save as thy hopeful bridegroom, and sooth, 
'T were Christian mercy to finish him, Ruth, 
Now, while he lies like a beast on our floor,— 
If not for thine, at least for his sake, 
Rather than let the poor dog awake 
To drain my flask, and claim as his bride 
Such a forest devil to run by his side,— 
Such a Wetuomanit'- as thou wouldst make !" 

He laughs at his jest. Hush— what is there ?— 
The sleeping Indian is striving to rise, 
With his knife in his hand, and glaring eyes !— 
•' Wagh !— Mogg will have the pale-face's hair, 

For his knife is sharp, and his fingers can help 
The hair to pull and the skin to peel,— 
Let him cry like a woman and twist like an eel, 

The great Captain Scamman must lose his scalp ! 
And Ruth, when she sees it, shall dance with Mogg, 
His eyes are fixed.— but his lips draw in,— 
With a low, hoarse chuckle, and fiendish grin,— 
And he sinks again, like a senseless log. 



1 4 ^<^SS Megone. 



Ruth does not speak, — she does not stir ; 

But she gazes down on the murderer, 

Whose broken and dreamful slumbers tell 

Too much for her ear of that deed of hell. 

She sees the knife, with its slaughter red, 

And the dark lingers clenching the bear-skin bed ! 

What thoughts of horror and madness whirl 

Through the burning brain of that fallen girl ! 

John Bonython lifts his gun to his eye, 

Its muzzle is close to the Indian's ear, — 
But he drops it again, " Some one may be nigh, 

And I would not that even the wolves should hear. 
He draws his knife from its deer-skin belt, — 
Its edge with his fingers is slowly felt ; — 
Kneeling down on one knee, by the Indian's side, 
From his throat he opens the blanket wide; 
And twice or thrice he feebly essays 
A trembling hand with the knife to raise. 

" I cannot," — he mutters, — " did he not save 

My life from a cold and wintry grave. 

When the storm came down from Agioochook, 

And the north-wind howled, and the tree-tops shook. 

And I strove, in the drifts of the rushing snow, 

Till my knees grew weak and I could not go. 

And I felt the cold to my vitals creep. 

And my heart's blood stiffen, and pulses sleep ! 

I cannot strike him — Ruth Bonython ! 

In the Devil's name, tell me — what 's to be done ?" 

O, when the soul, once pure and high, 
Is stricken down from Virtue's sky. 
As, with the downcast star of morn. 
Some gems of light are with it drawn, — 
And, through its night of darkness, play 
Some tokens of its primal day, — 
Some lofty feehngs linger still, — 

The strength to dare, the nerve to meet 

Whatever threatens with defeat 
Its all-indomitable will ! — 
But lacks the mean of mind and heart, 

Though eager for the gains of crime, 

Oft, at his chosen place and time. 
The strength to bear his evil part ; 
And, shielded by this very Vice, 
Escapes from Crime by Cowardice. 



Mogg Megone. 15 



Rulh starts erect, — with bloodshot eye, 

And lips drawn tight across her teeth. 
Showing their locked embrace beneath, 
In the red firelight : — " Mogg must die ! 
Give me the knife !" — The outlaw turns, 
Shuddering in heart and limb, away, — 
But, fitfully there, the hearth-fire burns, 

And he sees on the wall strange shadows play. 
A lifted arm, a tremulous blade, 
Are dimly pictured in light and shade. 

Plunging down in the darkness. Hark, that cry 
Again — and again — he sees it fall, — 
That shadowy arm down the lighted wall ! 
He hears quick footsteps — a shape flits by — 
The door on its rusted hinges creaks : — 
" Ruth — daughter Ruth !" the outlaw shrieks. 
But no sound comes back, — he is standing alone 
By the mangled corse of Mogg Megone ! 

PART n. 

'T IS morning over Norridgewock, — 
On tree and wigwam, wave and rock. 
Bathed in the autumnal sunshine, stirred 
At intervals by breeze and bird. 
And wearing all the hues which glow 
In heaven's own pure and perfect bow. 

That glorious picture of the air, 
Which summer's light-robed angel forms 
On the dark ground of fading storms, 

With pencil dipped in sunbeams there, — 
And, stretching out, on either hand. 
O'er all that wide and unshorn land. 
Till, weary of its gorgeousness. 
The aching and the dazzled eye 
Rests, gladdened, on the calm blue sky, — 

Slumbers the mighty wilderness ! 
The oak, upon the windy hill, 

Its dark green burthen upw^ard heaves— 
The hemlock broods above its rill, 
Its cone-like foliage darker still, 

While the white birch's graceful stem 
And the rough walnut-bough receives 
The sun upon their crowded leaves, 

Each colored like a topaz gem, 

And the tall maple wears with them 
The coronal, which autumn gives, 



1 6 ^ogg Meg one. 



The brief, bright sign of ruin near, 
The hectic of a dying year ! 

The hermit priest, who lingers now 
On the Bald Mountain's shrubless brow, 
The gray and thunder-smitten pile 
Which marks afar the Desert Isle,'' 

While gazing on the scene below, 
May half forget the dreams of home, 

That nightly with his slumbers come, — 
The tranquil skies of sunny France, 
The peasant's harvest song and dance. 
The vines around the hillsides wreathing 
The soft airs midst their clusters breathing, 
The wings which dipped, the stars which shone 
Within thy bosom, blue Garonne ! 
And round the Abbey's shadowed wall, 
At morning spring and even-fall. 

Sweet voices in the still air singing,- - 
The chant of many a holy hymn, — 

The solemn bell of vespers ringing, — 
And hallowed torchlight falling dim 

On pictured saint and seraphim ! 
For here beneath him lies unrolled. 
Bathed deep in morning's flood of gold, 
A vision gorgeous as the dream 
Of the beaiiiied may seem, 

When, as his Church's legends say, 
Borne upward in ecstatic bliss. 

The rapt enthusiast soars away 
Unto a brighter world than this : 
A mortal's glimpse beyond the pale, — 
A moment's lifting of the veil I 

Far eastward o'er the lovely bay, 
Penobscot's clustered wigwams lay; 
And gently from that Indian town 
The verdant hillside slopes adown, 
To where the sparkling waters play 

Upon the yellow sands below ; 
And shooting round the winding shores 

Of narrow capes, and isles which lie 

Slumbering to ocean's lullaby, — 
With birchen boat and glancing oars, 

The red men to their fishing go ; 
While from their planting ground is borne 
The treasure of the golden corn, 







^- 



Is BORNE THE TREASURE OF THE GOLDEN CORN. 



Mogg Megone. 



low 



By laughing girls, whose dark eyes glc .. 
Wild through the locks which o'er them flow. 
The wrinkled squaw, whose toil is done, 
Sits on her bear-skin in the sun, 
Watching the huskers, with a smile 
For each full ear which swells the pile ; 
And the old chief, who nevermore 
May bend the bow or pull the oar, 
Smokes gravely in his wigwam door, 
Or slowly shapes, with axe of stone, 
The arrow-head from flint and bone. 

Beneath the westward turning eye 
A thousand wooded islands lie, — 
Gems of the waters ! — with each hue 
Of brightness set in ocean's blue. 
Each bears aloft its tuft of trees 

Touched by the pencil of the frost, 
And, with the motion of each breeze, 

A moment seen, — a moment lost, — 

Changing and blent, confused and tossed; 

The brighter with the darker crossed, 
Their thousand tints of beauty glow 
Down in the restless waves below. 

And tremble in the sunny skies, 
As if, from waving bough to bough, 

Flitted the birds of paradise. 
There sleep Placentia's group, — and there 
Pere Breteaux marks the hour of prayer ; 
And there, beneath the sea-worn cliff. 

On which the Father's hut is seen, 
The Indian stays his rocking skiff. 

And peers the hemlock-boughs between, 
Half trembling, as he seeks to look 
Upon the Jesuit's Cross and Book." 
There, gloomily against the sky 
The Dark Isles rear their summits high ; 
And Desert Rock, abrupt and bare. 
Lifts its gray turrets in the air, — 
Seen from afar, like some stronghold 
Built by the ocean kings of old ; 
And, faint as smoke-wreath white and thin. 
Swells in the north vast Katahdin : 
And, wandering from its marshy feet, 
The broad Penobscot comes to meet 

And mingle with his own bright bay. 
Slow sweep his dark and gathering floods, 



Mogg Megone. 19 



Arched over by the ancient woods, 
Which Time, in those dim sohtudes, 
Wielding the dull axe of Decay, 
Alone hath ever shorn awav. 



Not thus, within the woods which hide 
The beauty of thy azure tide, 

And with their falling timbers block 
Thy broken currents, Kennebeck ! 
Gazes the white man on the wreck 

Of the down-trodden Norridgewock, — 
In one lone village hemmed at length. 
In battle shorn of half their strength. 
Turned, like the panther in his lair, 

With his fast- flowing life-blood wet. 
For one last struggle of despair, 

Wounded and faint, but tameless yet ! 
Unreaped, upon the planting lands. 
The scant, neglected harvest stands : 

No shout is there, — no dance, — no song : 
The aspect of the very child 
Scowls with a meaning sad and wild 

Of bitterness and wrong. 
The almost infant Norridgewock 
Essays to lift the tomahawk ; 
And plucks his father's knife away, 
To mimic, in his frightful play, 

The scalping of an English foe : 
W^reathes on his lip a horrid smile. 
Burns, like a snake's, his small eye, while 

Some bough or sapling meets his blow. 
The fisher, as he drops his line, 
Starts, when he sees the hazels quiver 
Along the margin of the river. 
Looks up and down the rippling tide, 
And grasps the firelock at his side. 
For Bomazee!"*'^ from Tacconock 
Has sent his runners to Norridgewock, 
With tidings that Moulton and Harmon of York 

Far up the river have come : 
They have left their boats,— they have entered the wood, 
And filled the depths of the solitude 

W^ith the sound of the ranger's drum. 

On the brow of a hill, which slopes to meet 
The flowing river, and bathe its feet, — 



20 ^^gg Meg one. 



The bare-washed rock, and the drooping grass, 
And the creeping vine, as the waters pass, — 
A rude and unshapely chapel stands. 
Built up in that wild by unskilled hands. 
Yet the traveller knows it a place of prayer. 
For the holy sign of the cross is there : 
And should bechance at that place to be, 

Of a Sabbath morn, or some hallowed day, 
When prayers are made and masses are said, 
Some for the living and some for the dead, 
Well might that traveller start to see 

The tall dark forms, that take their way 
From the birch canoe, on the river-shore. 
And the forest paths, to that chapel door ; 
And marvel to mark the naked knees 

And the dusky foreheads bending there, 
While, in coarse white vesture, over these 

In blessir.g or in prayer, 
Stretching abroad his thin pale hands, 
Like a shrouded ghost, the Jesuit-^ stands. 

Two forms are now in that chapel dim. 
The Jesuit, silent and sad and pale, 
Anxiously heeding some fearful tale. 

Which a stranger is telling him. 

That stranger's garb is soiled and torn. 

And wet with dew and loosely worn ; 

Her fair neglected hair falls down 

O'er cheeks with wind and sunshine brown ; 

Yet still, in that disordered face. 

The Jesuit's cautious eye can trace 

Those elements of former grace 

W^hich, half effaced, seem scarcely less, 

Even now, than perfect loveliness. 

With drooping head, and voice so low 
That scarce it meets the Jesuit's ears,— 

While through her clasped fingers flow, 

From the heart's fountain, hot and slow, 
Her penitential tears, — 

She tells the story of the woe 
And evil of her years. 



" O father, bear with me ; my heart 
Is sick and death like, and my brain 
Seems girdled with a fiery chain, 

Whose scorching links will never part, 
And never cool again. 




Two FORMS ARK NOW IN THAT CHAPEL DIM. 



Mogg Megone. 



Bear with me while I speak,— but turn 
Away that gentle eye, the while, — 

The fires of guilt more fiercely burn 
Beneath hs holy smile ; 

For half I fancy I can see 

My mother's sainted look in thee. 

" My dear lost mother I sad and pale, 
Mournfully sinking day by day, 

And with a hold on life as frail 

As frosted leaves, that, thin and gray, 
Hang feebly on their parent spray, 

And tremble in the gale ; 

Yet watching o'er my childishness 

With patient fondness, — not the less 

For all the agony which kept 

Her blue eye wakeful, while I slept ; 

And checking every tear and groan 

That haply might have waked my own, 

And bearing still, without offence, 

My idle words, and petulance ; 

Reproving with a tear, — and, while 

The tooth of pain was keenly preying 

Upon her very heart, repaying 
My brief repentance with a smile. 

" Oh, in her meek, forgiving eye 

There was a brightness not of mirth, 
A light whose clear intensity 

Was borrowed not of earth. 
Along her cheek a deepening red 
Told where the feverish hectic fed \ 

And yet, each fatal token gave 
To the mild beauty of her face 
A newer and a dearer grace, 

Unwarning of the grave. 
'T was like the hue which Autumn gives 
To yonder changed and dying leaves. 

Breathed over by his frosty breath ; 
Scarce can the gazer feel that this 
Is but the spoiler's treacherous kiss, 

The mocking-smile of Death ! 

" Sweet were the tales she used to tell 
When summer's eve was dear to us. 

And, fading from the darkening dell, 

The glory of the sunset fell 
On wooded Agamenticus, — 



Mogg Meg one. 



When, sitting by our cottage wall, 
The murmur of the Saco's fall. 

And the south-wind's expiring sighs. 
Came, softly blending, on my ear. 
With the low tones I loved to hear : 

Tales of the pure,— the good,— the wise. 
The holy men and maids of old. 
In the all-sacred pages told ;— 
Of Rachel, stooped at Haran's fountains. 

Amid her father's thirsty flock. 
Beautiful to her kinsman seem.ing 
As the bright angels of his dreaming. 

On Padan-aran's holy rock ; 
Of gentle Ruth,— and her who kept 

Her awful vigil on the mountains. 
By Israel's virgin daughters wept ; 
Of Miriam, with her maidens, singing 

The song for grateful Israel meet, 
While ever>' crimson wave was bringing 

The spoils of Egypt at her feet ; 
Of her,— Samaria's humble daughter, 

Who paused to hear, beside her well, 

Lessons of love and truth, which fell 
Softlv as Shiloh's flowing water ; 

And saw, beneath his pilgrim guise. 
The Promised One, so long foretold 
By holy seer and bard of old. 

Revealed before her wondering eyes. 

" Slowly she faded. Day by day 
Her step grew weaker in our hall. 
And fainter, at each even-fall, 

Her sad voice died away. 
Yet on her thin, pale lip, the while, 
Sat Resignation's holy smile : 
And even my father checked his tread, 
And hushed'his voice, beside her bed : 
Beneath the calm and sad rebuke 
Of her meek eve's imploring look. 
The scowl of hate his brow forsook. 

And in his stern and gloomy eye, 
At times, a few unwonted tears 
Wet the dark lashes, which for years 

Hatred and pride had kept so dry. 

" Calm as a child to slumber soothed, 
As if an angel's hand had smoothed 



24 ^^ogg Meg one. 



The still, white features into rest, 
Silent and cold, without a breath 

To stir the drapery on her breast, 
Pain, with its keen and poisoned fang, 
The horror of the mortal pang, 
The suffering look her brow had worn. 
The fear, the strife, the anguish gone, — 

She slept at last in death ! 

" O, tell me, father, can the dead 
Walk on the earth, and look on us. 

And lay upon the living's head 
Their blessing or their curse ? 

For, O, last night she stood by me, 

As I lay beneath the woodland tree !" 

The Jesuit crosses himself in awe, — 
" Jesu ! what was it my daughter saw ?" 

" SJie came to me last night. 

The dried leaves did not feel her tread ; 
She stood by me in the wan moonlight, 

In the white robes of the dead ! 
Pale, and very mournfully 
She bent her light form over me. 
I heard no sound, I felt no breath 
Breathe o'er me from that face of death ; 
Its blue eyes rested on my own, 
Rayless and cold as eyes of stone ; 
Yet, in their fixed, unchanging gaze, 
Something, which spoke of early days, — 
A sadness in their quiet glare. 
As if love's smile were frozen there, — 
Came o'er me with an icy thrill ; 
O God ! I feel its presence still !" 

The Jesuit makes the holy sign, — 

" How passed the vision, daughter mine ? 

" All dimly in the wan moonshine, 
As a wreath of mist will twist and twine, 
And scatter, and melt into the light. — 
So scattering, —melting on my sight. 

The pale, cold vision passed ; 
But those sad eyes were fixed ox\ mine 

Mournfully to the last." 



Mogg Megojic. 



25 



" God help thee, daughter, 

tell me why 
That spirit passed before 

thine eye !" 



iss?^ 



" Father, I know not, save 
it be 
That deeds of mine have 

summoned her 
From the unbreathing sep- 
ulchre, 

To leave her last rebuke with 
me. 

Ah, woe for me I my mother 
died 

Just at the moment when I 
stood 

Close on the verge of woman- 
hood, 

A child in everything beside ; 

And w^hen my wild heart 
needed most 

Her gentle counsels, they were lost 



'#ft-s^^ 




# 



She stood by me in the wan moonlight. 



" My father lived a stormy life. 
Of frequent change and daily strife : 
And — God forgive him ! — left his child 
To feel, like him, a freedom wild ; 
To love the red man's dwelHng-place. 

The birch boat on his shaded floods. 
The wild excitement of the chase 

Sweeping the ancient woods. 
The camp-rire, blazing on the shore 

Of the still lakes, the clear stream where 

The idle fisher sets his wear, 
Or angles in the shade, far more 

Than that restraining awe I felt 
Beneath my gentle mother's care. 

When nightly at her knee I knelt. 
With childhood's simple prayer. 



" There came a change. The wild, glad mood 

Of unchecked freedom passed. 
Amid the ancient solitude 
Of unshorn grass and waving wood. 

And waters glancing bright and fast, 



26 ^ogg Me gone. 



A softened voice was in my ear, 

Sweet as those lulling sounds and tine 
The hunter lifts his head to hear, 
Now far and faint, now full and near — 

The murmur of the wind-swept pine. 
A manly form was ever nigh, 
A bold, free hunter, with an eye 

Whose dark, keen glance had power to wake 
Both fear and love, — to awe and charm 

'T was as the wizard rattlesnake. 
Whose evil glances lure to harm — 
Whose cold and small and glittering eye, 
And brilliant coil, and changing dye. 
Draw, step by step, the gazer near. 
With drooping wing and cry of fear, 
Yet powerless all to turn away, 
A conscious, but a willing prey ! 

" Fear, doubt, thought, life itself, erelong 
Merged in one feeling deep and strong. 
Faded the world which I had known, 

A poor vain shadow, cold and waste ; 
In the warm present bliss alone 

Seemed I of actual life to taste. 
Fond longings dimly understood, 
The glow of passion's quickening blood, 
And cherished fantasies which press 
The young lip with a dream's caress, — 
The heart's forecast and prophecy 
Took form and life before my eye, 
Seen in the glance which met my own. 
Heard in the soft and pleading tone. 
Felt in the arms around me cast. 
And warm heart-pulses beating fast. 
Ah ! scarcely yet to God above 
With deeper trust, with stronger love. 
Has prayerful saint his meek heart lent. 
Or cloistered nun at twilight bent, 
Than I, before a human shrine. 
As mortal and as frail as mine. 
With heart, and soul, and mind, and form, 
Knelt madly to a fellow-worm. 

" Full soon, upon that dream of sin, 
An awful light came bursting in. 
The shrine was cold at which I knelt, 
The idol of that shrine was gone ; 



Mos:s: Mes:one. 27 



'd<^ -^'^ -^6 



A humbled thing of shame and guilt, 
Outcast, and spurned and lone, 

Wrapt in the shadows of my crime, 

With withering heart and burning brain, 
And tears that fell hke fiery rain, 

I passed a fearful time. 

" There came a voice — it checked the tear — 

In heart and soul it wrought a change ; — 
My father's voice w'as in my ear ; 

It whispered of revenge ! 
A new and fiercer feeling swept 

All lingering tenderness away ; 
And tiger passions, which had slept 

In childhood's better day. 
Unknown, unfelt, arose at length 
In all their own demoniac strength. 

" A youthful warrior of the wild, 
By words deceived, by smiles beguiled. 
Of crime the cheated instrument. 
Upon our fatal errands went. 

Through camp and town and wilderness 
He tracked his victim ; and, at last, 
Just when the tide of hate had passed, 
And milder thoughts came warm and fast, 
Exulting, at my feet he cast 

The bloody token of success. 

" O God ! with what an awful power 

I saw^ the buried past uprise, 
And gather, in a single hour. 

Its ghost-like memories ! 
And then I felt — alas ! too late — 
That underneath the mask of hate, 
That shame and guilt and wTong had thrown 
O'er feelings which they might not own. 

The heart's wild love had known no change 
And still that deep and hidden love. 
With its first fondness, wept above 

The victim of its own revenge ! 
There lay the fearful scalp, and there 
The blood was on its pale brown hair ! 
I thought not of the victim's scorn, 

I thought not of his baleful guile. 
My deadly wrong, my outcast name, 
The characters of sin and shame 



2 8 Mogg Meg one. 



On heart and forehead drawn ; 

I only saw that victim's smile, — 
The still, green places where we met, — 
The moonlit branches, dewy wet ; 
I only felt, I only heard 
The greeting and the parting word, — 
The smile, — the embrace, — the tone, which made 
An Eden of the forest shade. 

" And oh, with what a loathing eye. 

With what a deadly hate, and deep, 
I saw that Indian murderer lie 

Before me, in his drunken sleep ! 
What though for me the deed was done, 
And words of mine had sped him on ! 
Yet when he murmured, as he slept. 

The horrors of that deed of blood, 
The tide of utter madness swept 

O'er brain and bosom, like a tiood. 
And, father, with this hand of mine — " 

" Ha ! what didst thou ?" the Jesuit cries, 
Shuddering, as smitten with sudden pain. 

And shading, with one thin hand, his eyes, 
With the other he makes the holy sign. 
" —I smote him as I would a worm ; — 
With heart as steeled, with nerves as firm : 

He never woke again !" 

" Woman of sin and blood and shame, 
Speak, — I would know that victim's name." 

" Father," she gasped, " a chieftain, known 
As Saco's Sachem, — MOGG Megone !" 

Pale priest ! What proud and lofty dreams, 
What keen desires, what cherished schemes, 
What hopes, that time may not recall. 
Are darkened by that chieftain's fall ! 
Was he not pledged, by cross and vow. 

To lift the hatchet of his sire, 
And, round his own, the Church's foe, 

To light the avenging fire } 
Who now the Tarrantine shall wake, 
For thine and for the Church's sake ? 

Who summon to the scene 
Of conquest and unsparing strife. 
And vengeance dearer than his life, 



Mogg Megone. 



29 



The fiery'-souled Castine ? " 
Three backward steps the Jesuit takes, — 
His long, thin frame as ague shakes ; 

And loathing hate is in his eye, 
As from his lips these words of fear 
Fall hoarsely on the maiden's ear, — 

" The soul that sinneth shall surely die ! 

She stands, as stands the stricken deer, 
Checked midway in the fearful chase, 
When bursts, upon his eye and ear, 
The gaunt, gray robber, baying near, 
Between him and his hiding-place ; 




Her hands are clasping the Jesuit's knee. 



While Still behind, with yell and blow, 
Sweeps, like a storm, the coming foe. 
" Save me, O holy man !" — her cry 

Fills all the void, as if a tongue, 

Unseen, from rib and rafter hung, 
Thrilling with mortal agony ; 
Her hands are clasping the Jesuit's knee, 

And her eye looks fearfully into his own ;— 
" Off, woman of sin ! — nay, touch not me 

With those fingers of blood ;— begone !" 
With a gesture of horror, he spurns the form 
That writhes at his feet like a trodden worm. 



30 



Mogg Meg 



Ever thus the spirit must, 

Guilty in the sight of Heaven, 

With a keener woe be riven, 
For its weak and sinful trust 
In the strength of human dust ; 

And its anguish thrill afresh, 
For each vain reliance given 

To the failing arm of fiesh. 

PART III. 

Ah, weary Priest ! — with pale hands pressed 

On thy throbbing brow of pain, 
Baffled in thy life-long quest, 

Overworn with toiling vain. 
How ill thy troubled musings tit 

The holy quiet of a breast 

With the Dove of Peace at rest. 
Sweetly brooding over it. 
Thoughts are thine which have no part 
With "the meek and pure of heart. 

Undisturbed by outward things, 
Resting in the heavenly shade, 
By the overspreading wings 

Of the Blessed Spirit made. 
Thoughts of strife and hate and wrong 
Sweep thy heated brain along. 
Fading hopes for whose success 

It were sin to breathe a prayer ; — 
Schemes which Heaven may never bless. — 

Fears which darken to despair. 
Hoary priest ! thy dream is done 
Of a hundred red tribes won 

To the p'-.le of Holy Church ; 
And the heretic overthrown, 
And his name no longer known, 
And thy weary brethren turning, 
Joyful from their years of mourning, 
'Twixt the altar and the porch. 
Hark ! what sudden sound is heard 

In the wood and in the sky, 
Shriller than the scream of bird, — 

Than the trumpet's clang more high .' 
Every wolf-cave of the hills, — 

Forest arch and mountain gorge. 

Rock and dell, and river verge,— 



Mogg Meg one. 31 



With an answering echo thrills. 
Well does the Jesuit know that cry, 
Which summons the Norridgewock to die, 
And tells that the foe of his flock is nigh. 
He listens, and hears the rangers come, 
With loud hurrah, and jar of drum, 
And hurrying feet (for the chase is hot), 
And the short, sharp sound of rifle shot. 
And taunt and menace, — answered well 
By the Indians' mocking cry and yell, — 
The bark of dogs, — the squaw's mad scream, 
The dash of paddles along the stream, — 
The whistle of shot as it cuts the leaves 
Of the maples around the church's eaves, — 
And the gride of hatchets fiercely thrown. 
On wigwam -log and tree and stone. 
Black with the grime of paint and dust. 

Spotted and streaked with human gore, 
A grim and naked head is thrust 

Within the chapel-door. 
" Ha — Bomazeen ! — In God's name say, 
What mean these sounds of bloody fray ?" 
Silent, the Indian points his hand 

To where across the echoing glen 
Sweep Harmon's dreaded ranger-band. 

And Moulton with his men. 
" Where are thy warriors, Bomazeen ? 
Where are De Rouville^® and Castine, 
And where the braves of Sawga's queen }''' 
" Let my father find the winter snow 
Which the sun drank up long moons ago ! 
Under the falls of Tacconock, 
The wolves are eating the Norridgewock ; 
Castine with his wives lies closely hid 
Like a fox in the woods of Pemaquid ! 
On Sawga's banks the man of war 
Sits in his wigwam like a squaw, — 
Squando has fled, and Mogg Megone, 
Struck by the knife of Sagamore John, 
Lies stiff and stark and cold as a stone." 

Fearfully over the Jesuit's face. 
Of a thousand thoughts, trace after trace, 
Like swift cloud shadows, each other chase. 
One instant, his fingers grasp his knife, 
For a last vain struggle for cherished life, — 
The next, he hurls the blade away, 



^2 ^^ogg Meg one 



And kneels at his altar's foot to pray ; 

Over his beads his fingers stray, 

And he kisses the cross, and calls aloud 

On the Virgin and her Son ; 

For terrible thoughts his memory crowd 

Of evil seen and done, — 
Of scalps brought home by his savage flock 
From Casco and Sawga and Sagadahock 

In the Church's service won. 

No shrift the gloomy savage brooks. 

As scowling on the priest he looks : 

" Cowesass— cowesass — tawhich wessaseen P^" 

Let my father look upon Bomazeen,^ — 

My father's heart is the heart of a squaw, 

But mine is so hard that it does not thaw ; 

Let my father ask his God to make 

A dance and a feast for a great sagamore, 
When he paddles across the western lake. 

With his dogs and his squaws to the spirit's shore. 
" Cowesass — cowesass — tawhich wessaseen ? 
Let my father die like Bomazeen ! " 

Through the chapel's narrow doors, 

And through each window in the w^alls, 
Round the priest and warrior pours 

The deadly shower of English balls. 
Low on his cross the Jesuit falls ; 
While at his side the Norridgewock, 
With failing breath, essays to mock 
And menace yet the hated foe, — 
Shakes his scalp-trophies to and fro 

Exultingly before their eyes, — 
Till, cleft and torn by shot and blow, 

Defiant still, he dies. 

" So fare all eaters of the frog ! 
Death to the Babylonish dog ! 

Down with the beast of Rome !" 
With shouts like these, around the dead. 
Unconscious on his bloody bed, 

The rangers crowding come. 
Brave men ! the dead priest cannot hear 
The unfeeling taunt, — the brutal jeer ; — 
Spurn — for he sees ye not — in wrath, 
The symbol of your Saviour's death ; 

Tear from his death-grasp, in your zeal. 



Mogg Mcgonc. ^^2> 



And trample, as a thing accursed, 
The cross he cherished in the dust : 
The dead man cannot feel ! 

Brutal alike in deed and word, 

With callous heart and hand of strife, 
How like a fiend may man be made, 
Plying the foul and monstrous trade 

Whose harvest-field is human life, 
Whose sickle is the reeking sword ! 
Quenching, with reckless hand in blood, 
Sparks kindled by the breath of God ; 
Urging the deathless soul, unshriven. 

Of open guilt or secret sin. 
Before the bar of that pure Heaven 

The holy only enter in ! 
O, by the widow's sore distress, 
The orphan's w^ailing wretchedness, 
By Virtue struggling in the accursed 
Embraces of polluting Lust, 
By the fell discord of the Pit, 
And the pained souls that people it. 
And by the blessed peace which fills 

The Paradise of God forever. 
Resting on all its holy hills, 

And flowing with its crystal river, — 
Let Christian hands no longer bear 

In triumph on his crimson car 

The foul and idol god of war ; 
No more the purple wreaths prepare 
To bind amid his snaky hair ; 
Nor Christian bards his glories tell, 
Nor Christian tongues his praises swell. 

Through the gun-smoke wreathing white, 

Glimpses on the soldiers' sight 

A thing of human shape I ween, 

For a moment only seen. 

With its loose hair backward streaming, 

And its eyeballs madly gleaming, 

Shrieking, like a soul in pain. 

From the world of light and breath, 
Hurrying to its place again. 

Spectre-like it vanisheth ! 

Wretched girl ! one eye alone 
Notes the way which thou hast gone. 



34 



Mogg Megone, 



-"il^^j^r^ 



That great Eye, which slumbers never, 
Watching o'er a lost world ever, 
Tracks thee over vale and mountain, 
By the gushing forest-fountain, 
Plucking from the vine its fruit, 
Searching for the ground-nut's root. 
Peering in the she-wolf's den, 
Wading through the marshy fen, 
Where the sluggish water-snake 
Basks beside the sunny brake. 
Coiling in his slimy bed. 
Smooth and cold against thy tread, — 
Purposeless, thy mazy way 
J Threading through the lingering day. 
\idi -^'^^ ^^ night securely sleeping 

W^here the dogwood's dews are weeping! 
Still, though earth and man discard thee. 
Doth thy Heavenly Father guard thee : 
He who spared the guilty Cain, 
_^ Even when a brother's blood, 

-*«*^ , Crying in the ear of God, 

'^~~^ "- Gave the earth its primal stain, — 
'"'^^'^ He whose mercy ever liv- 

eth, 
<ovoH THE M.ARSHv FEN. ^ho repcnting guilt for^ 

giveth, 
And the broken heart receiveth, — 
Wanderer of the wilderness. 

Haunted, guilty, crazed, and wild. 
He regardeth thy distress, 

And careth for his sinful child ! 




Wadini 



'T is springtime on the eastern hills ! 
Like torrents gush the summer rills ; 
Through winter's moss and dry dead leaves 
The bladed grass revives and lives. 
Pushes the mouldering waste away. 
And glimpses to the April day. 
In kindly shower and sunshine bud 
The branches of the dull gray wood ; 
Out from its sunned and sheltered nooks 
The blue eye of the violet looks; 

The southwest wind is warmly blowing, 
And odors from the springing grass, 
The pine-tree and the sassafras, 

Are with it on its errands going. 



Mogg Mego7ie. 35 



A band is marching through the wood 
Where rolls the Kennebec his flood, — 
The warriors of the wilderness, 
Painted, and in their battle dress ; 
And with them one whose bearded cheek, 
And white and wrinkled brow, bespeak 

A wanderer from the shores of France. 
A few long locks of scattering snow 
Beneath a battered morion flow. 
And from the rivets of the vest 
Which girds in steel his ample breast, 

The slanted sunbeams glance. 
In the harsh outlines of his face 
Passion and sin have left their trace ; 
Yet, save worn brow and thin gray hair, 
No signs of weary age are there. 

His step is firm, his eye is keen. 
Nor years in broil and battle spent. 
Nor toil, nor wounds, nor pain have bent 

The lordly frame of old Castine. 

No purpose now of strife and blood 

Urges the hoary veteran on : 
The fire of conquest and the mood 

Of chivalry have gone. 
A mournful task is his, — to lay 

Within the earth the bones of those 
Who perished in that fearful day, 
W^hen Norridgewock became the prey 

Of all unsparing foes. 
Sadly and still, dark thoughts between, 
Of coming vengeance mused Castine, 
Of the fallen chieftain Bomazeen, 
Who bade for him the Norridgewocks 
Dig up their buried tomahawks 

For firm defence or swift attack ; 
And him whose friendship formed the tie 

Which held the stern self-exile back 
From lapsing into savagery ; 
Whose garb and tone and kindly glance 

Recalled a younger, happier day. 

And prompted memory's fond essay. 

To bridge the mighty waste which lay 

Between his wild home and that gray, 
Tall chateau of his native France, 
Whose chapel bell, with far-heard din, 
Ushered his birth-hour gayly in, 



;^6 ^ogg Mcgone. 



And counted with its solemn toll 
The masses for his father's soul. 

Hark ! from the foremost of the band 

Suddenly bursts the Indian yell ; 
For now on the very spot they stand 

Where the Norridgevvocks lighting fell. 
No wigwam smoke is curling there ; 
The very earth is scorched and bare : 
And they pause and listen to catch a sound 

Of breathing life, — but there comes not one, 
Save the fox's bark and the rabbit's bound ; 
But here and there, on the blackened ground, 

White bones are glistening in the sun. 
And where the house of prayer arose, 
And the holy hymn, at daylight's close, 
And the aged priest stood up to bless 
The children of the wilderness. 
There is naught save ashes sodden and dank ; 

And the birchen boats of the Norridgewock, 

Tethered to tree and stump and rock 
Rotting along the river bank ! 

Blessed Mary ! who is she 
Leaning against that maple-tree ? 
The sun upon her face burns hot, 
But the fixed eyelid moveth not ; 
The squirrel's chirp is shrill and clear 
From the dry bough above her ear ; 
Dashing from rock and root its spray, 

Close at her feet the river rushes ; 

The blackbird's wing against her brushes, 

And sweetly through the hazel-bushes 

The robin's mellow music gushes; — 
God save her ! will she sleep alway } 

Castine hath bent him over the sleeper : 

" Wake, daughter, — wake !" — but she stirs no Hmb 

The eye that looks on him is fixed and dim ; 
And the sleep she is sleeping shall be no deeper, 

Until the angel's oath is said. 
And the final blast of the trump goes forth 
To the graves of the sea and the graves of earth. 

Ruth Bonython is dead ! 



^_ .^^N 




BF\iD^L•^pE^lH/\cooK: 




// 



We had been wandering for many 

days 
Through the rough northern coun- 
try. We had seen 
The sunset, with its bars of purple 

cloud, 
Like a new heaven, shine upward 

from the lake 
Of Winnepiseogee; and had felt 
The sunrise breezes, midst the leafy 

isles 
Which stoop their summer beauty 

to the lips 
Of the bright waters. We had 

checked our steeds, 
Silent with wonder, where the 

mountain wall 
Is piled to heaven; and, through 

^the narrow rift 

{Of the vast rocks, against whose rugged feet 
Beats the mad torrent with perpetual roar. 
Where noonday is as twilight, and the wind 
Comes burdened with the everlasting moan 
Of forests and of far-off waterfalls. 
We had looked upward where the summer 

sky, 
Tasselled with clouds light-woven by the sun, 
. ^0 Sprung its blue arch above the abutting crags 
^ ' O'er-roofing the vast portal of the land 

Beyond the wall of mountains. We had passed 
The high source of the Saco ; and bewildered 
In the dwarf spruce-belts of the Crystal Hills, 
Had heard above us, like a voice in the cloud, 
The Horn of Fabvan sounding ; and atop 
Of old Agioochoo'k had seen the mountams 



3 8 The Bridal of Feimacook. 

Piled to the northward, shagged with wood, and thick 
As meadow mole-hills, — the far sea of Casco, 
A white gleam on the horizon of the east ; 
Fair lakes, embosomed in the woods and hills ; 
Moosehillock's mountain range, and Kearsarge 
Lifting his Titan forehead to the sun ! 

And we had rested underneath the oaks 

Shadowing the bank, whose grassy spires are shaken 

By the perpetual beating of the falls 

Of the wild Ammonoosuc. We had tracked 

The winding Pemigewasset, overhung 

By beechen shadows, whitening down its rocks, 

Or lazily gliding through its intervals. 

From waving rye-fields sending up the gleam 

Of sunlit waters. We had seen the moon 

Rising behind Umbagog's eastern pines, 

Like a great Indian camp-fire ; and its beams 

At midnight spanning with a bridge of silv^er 

The Merrimack by LTncanoonuc's falls. 

There were five souls of us whom travel's chance 

Had thrown together in these wild north hills : — 

A city lawyer, for a month escaping 

From his dull office, where the weary eye 

Saw only hot brick walls and close thronged streets, — 

Briefness as yet, but with an eye to see 

Life's sunniest side, and with a heart to take 

Its chances all as Godsends ; and his brother, 

Pale from long pulpit studies, yet retaining 

The warmth and freshness of a genial heart, 

Whose mirror of the beautiful and true 

In Man and Nature, was as yet undimmed 

By dust of theologic strife, or breath 

Of sect, or cobwebs of scholastic lore ; 

Like a clear crystal calm of water, taking 

The hue and image of o'erleaning flowers 

Sweet human faces, white clouds of the noon, 

Slant starlight glimpses through the dewy leaves, 

And tenderest moonrise. 'T was, in truth, a study. 

To mark his spirit, alternating between 

A decent and professional gra\'ity 

And an irreverent mirthfulness, which often 

Laughed in the face of his divinity. 

Plucked off the sacred ephod, quite unshrined 

The oracle, and for the pattern priest 

Left us the man. A shrewd, sagacious merchant, 



The Bridal of Peniiacook. 39 

To whom the soiled sheet found m Crawford's inn, 

Giving the latest news of city stocks 

And sales of cotton, had a deeper meaning 

Than the great presence of the awful mountains 

Glorihed by the sunset ; — and his daughter 

A delicate flower on whom had blown too long 

Those evil winds, which, sweeping from the ice 

And winnowing the fogs of Labrador, 

Shed their cold blight round Massachusetts Bay, 

With the same breath which stirs Spring's opening lea\es 

And lifts her half-formed flower-bell on its stem. 

Poisoning our seaside atmosphere. 

It chanced 
That as we turned upon our homeward wa}-, 
A drear northeastern storm came howling up 
The valley of the Saco; and that girl 
Who had stood with us upon Mount W^ashington, 
Her brown locks ruffled by the wind which whirled 
In gusts around its sharp cold pinnacle. 
Who had joined our gay trout-tishing in the streams 
Which lave that giant's feet ; whose laugh was heard 
Like a bird's carol on the sunrise breeze 
Which swelled our sail amidst the lake's green islands. 
Shrank from its harsh, chili breath, and visibly drooped 
Like a flower in the frost. So, in that quiet inn 
Which looks from Conway on the mountains piled 
Heavily against the horizon of the north, 
Like summer thunder-clouds, we made our home: 
And while the mist hung over dripping hills. 
And the cold wind-driven rain-drops all day long 
Beat their sad music upon roof and pane, 
We strove to cheer our gentle invalid. 

The lawyer in the pauses of the storm 
W^ent angling down the Saco, and, returning, 
Recounted his adventures and mishaps ' 
Gave us the history of his scaly clients. 
Mingling with ludicrous yet apt citations. 
Of barbarous law Latin, passages 
From Izaak Walton's Angler, sweet and fresh 
As the flower-skirted streams of Staffordshire, 
Where, under aged trees, the southwest wind 
Of soft June mornings fanned the thin, white hair 
Of the sage fisher. And, if truth be told. 
Our youthful candidate forsook his sermons. 
His commentaries, articles and creeds, 



40 



The Bridal of Pcniiacook. 




Our gay trout-fishing in the streams. 



For the fair page of human loveliness, — 

The missal of young hearts, whose sacred text 

Is music, its illumining sweet smiles. 

He sang the songs she loved ; and in his low, 

Deep, earnest voice, recited many a page 

Of poetry, — the holiest, tenderest lines 

Of the sad bard of Olney, — the sweet songs. 

Simple and beautiful as Truth and Nature, 

Of him whose whitened locks on Rydal Mount 

Are lifted yet by morning breezes blowing 

From the green hills, immortal in his lays. 

And for myself, obedient to her wish, 

I searched our landlord's proffered library, — 

A well-thumbed Bunyan, with its nice wood pictures 

Of scaly fiends and angels not unlike them, — 

Watts' unmelodious psalms, — Astrology's 

Last home, a musty pile of almanacs. 

And an old chronicle of border wars 

And Indian history. And, as I read 

A story of the marriage of the Chief 



The Bridal of Fciuiacook. 



Of Saugus to the dusky Weetamoo, 
Daug-hter of Passaconaway, who dwelt 
In the old time upon the Merrimack, 
Our fair one, in the playful exercise 
Of her prerogative,— the right divine 
Of youth and beauty, — bade us versify 
The legend, and with ready pencil sketched 
Its plan and outlines, laughingly assigning 
To each his part, and barring our excuses 
With absolute will. So, like the cavaliers 
Whose voices still are heard in the Romance 
Of silver-tongued Boccaccio, on the banks 
Of Arno, with soft tales of love beguiling 
The ear of languid beauty, plague-exiled 
From stately Florence, we rehearsed our rhymes 
To their fair auditor, and shared by turns 
Her kind approval and her playful censure. 

It may be that these fragments owe alone 

To the fair setting of their circumstances, — 

The associations of time, scene, and audience, — 

Their place amid the pictures which till up 

The chambers of my memory. Yet I trust 

That some, w^ho sigh, while wandering in thought, 

Pilgrims of Romance o'er the olden world. 

That our broad land, — our sea-like lakes and mountains 

Piled to the clouds, — our rivers overhung 

By forests which have known no other change 

For ages, than the budding and the fall 

Of leaves, — our valleys lovelier than those 

Which the old poets sang of, — should but figure 

On the apocryphal chart of speculation 

As pastures, wood-lots, mill-sites, with the privileges. 

Rights, and appurtenances, which make up 

A Yankee Paradise, — unsung, unknown. 

To beautiful tradition ; even their names. 

Whose melody yet lingers like the last 

Vibration of the red man's requiem, 

Exchanged for syllables signiticant 

Of cotton-mill and rail-car, will look kindly 

Upon this effort to call up the ghost 

Of our dim Past, and listen w4th pleased ear 

To the responses of the questioned Shade. 

I. THE MERRIMACK. 

O CHILD of that white-crested mountain whose springs 
Gush forth in the shade of the cliff-eagle's wings. 



42 The Bi'idal of Pennacook. 

Down whose slopes to the lowlands thy wild waters shme, 
Leaping gray walls of rock, flashing through the dwarf pine. 



From that cloud-curtained cradle so cold and so lone, 
From the arms of that wintry-locked mother of stone, 
By hills hung with forests, through vales wide and free, 
Thy mountain-born brightness glanced down to the sea ! 

No bridge arched thy waters save that where the trees 
Stretched their long arms above thee and kissed in the breeze 
No sound save the lapse of the waves on thy shores, 
The plunging of otters, the light dip of oars. 

Green-tufted, oak-shaded, by Amoskeag's fall 
Thy twin Uncanoonucs rose stately and tall, 
Thy Nashua meadows lay green and unshorn. 
And the hills of Pentucket were tasselled with corn. 

But thy Pennacook valley was fairer than these, 
And greener its grasses and taller its trees. 
Ere the sound of an axe in the forest had rung. 
Or the mower his scythe in the meadows had swung. 

In their sheltered repose looking out from the wood 
The bark-builded wigwams of Pennacook stood. 
There glided the corn-dance, the Council-fire shone, 
And against the red war-post the hatchet was thrown. 

There the old smoked in silence their pipes, and the young 
To the pike and the white-perch their baited lines flung ; 
There the boy shaped his arrows, and there the shy maid 
Wove her many-hued baskets and bright vv'ampum braid. 

O Stream of the Mountains ! if answer of thine 
Could rise from thy waters to question of mine, 
Methinks through the din of thy thronged banks a moan 
Of sorrow would swell for the days which have gone. 



Not for thee the dull jar of the loom and the wheel, 
The gliding of shuttles, the ringing of steel ; 
But that old voice of waters, of bird and of breeze, 
The dip of the wild-fowl, the rustling of trees ! 



The Bridal of Pennacook. 



43 



II. THE EASHAILA..^' 

Lift we the twiliglit curtains of the Past, 
And, turning from famihar sight and 
sound, 

Sadly and full of reverence let us cast 
A glance upon Tradition's shadowy 
ground, 

Led by the few pale lights which, glim- 
mering round 1 
That dim, strange land of Eld, seem ' 
dying fast : 

And that which history gives not to the 
eye, 

The faded coloring of Time's tapestry, 

Let Fancy, with her dream- 
d^'pped brush, supply. 

Roof of bark and walls of 

pine. 
Through whose chinks the 

sunbeams shine, 
Tracing many a golden lin^ 
On the ample floor within : 
Where, upon that 

e a r t h - f 1 o o r v 

stark, '\ 

Lay the gaudy mats ' ' 

of bark, 
With the bear's hide, -t-- . . 



^ 



) 




rough and dark. 
And the red-deer's 
skin. 



There the shy maid wove her manv-hued baskets. 



Window-traceiy, small and slight, 
Wa\en of the willow white. 
Lent a dimly checkered light, 

And the night-stars glimmered down, 
Where the lodge-hre's heavy smoke, 
Slowly through an opening broke. 
In the low roof, ribbed with oak. 

Sheathed with hemlock brown. 



Gloomed behind the changeless shade, 
By the solemn pine- wood made : 
Through the rugged palisade. 
In the open foreground planted, 



44 The B?'tdal of Pennacook. 



Glimpses came of rowers rowing, 
Stir of leaves and wild-fiowers blowing, 
Steel-like gleams of water flowing, 
In the sunliijht slanted. 



Here the mighty Bashaba 

Held his long-unquestioned sway. 

From the White Hills, far away. 

To the great sea's soundirig shore ; 
Chief of chiefs, his regal word 
All the river Sachems heard, 
At his call the war-dance stirred, 

Or was still once more. 

There his spoils of chase and war, 
Jaw of wolf and black bear's paw. 
Panther's skin and eagle's claw 

Lay beside his axe and bow : 
And, adown the roof-pole hung, 
Loosely on a snake-skin strung, 
In the smoke his scalp-locks swung 

Grimly to and fro. 

Nightly down the river going. 
Swifter was the hunter's rowing, 
When he saw that lodge-fire glowing 

O'er the waters still and red ; 
And the squaw's dark eye burned brighter. 
And she drew her blanket tighter, 
As, with quicker step and lighter, 

From that door she fled. 

For that chief had magic skill, 
And a Panisee's dark will, 
Over powers of good and ill. 

Powers which bless and powers which ban. 
Wizard lord of Pennacook, 
Chiefs upon their war-path shook. 
When they met the steady look 

Of that wise dark man. 

Tales of him the gray squaw told. 
When the winter night-wind cold 
Pierced her blanket's thickest fold, 
And the fire burned low and small. 



The Bridal of Feiinacook. 



45 



Till the very child abed. 
Drew its bear-skin overhead, 
Shrinking from the pale lights shed 
On the trembling wall. 

All the subtle spirits hiding 
Under earth or wav^e, abiding 
In the caverned rock, or riding 
Misty clouds or morning breeze ; 




The mighty Bashaba. 

Every dark intelligence, 
Secret soul, and influence 
Of all things which outward sense 
Feels, or hears, or sees, — 



These the wizard's skill confessed, 
At his bidding banned or blessed, 
Stormful woke or lulled to rest 

Wind and cloud, and fire and flood 



4^ The Bridal of Peiinacooli. 



Burned for him the drifted snow, 
Bade through ice fresh lilies blow, 
And the leaves of summer grow 
Over winter's wood ! 

Kot untrue that tale of did! 
Now, as then, the wise and bold 
All the powers of Nature hold 

Subject to their kingly will; 
From the wondering crowds ashdrfe, 
Treading life's wild waters o'er, 
As upon a marble floor, 

Moves the strong man still. 

Still, to such life's elements 
With their sterner laws dispense, 
And the chain of consequence 

Broken in their pathway lies ; 
Time and change their vassals making, 
Flowers from icy pillows waking. 
Tresses of the sunrise shaking 

Over midnight skies. 

Still, to earnest souls, the sun 
Rests on towered Gibeon, 
And the moon of Ajalon 

Lights the battle-grounds of life ; 
To his aid the strong reverses 
Hidden powers and giant forces 
And the high stars, in their courses. 

Mingle in his strife ! 

III. THE DAUGHTER, 

The soot-black brows of men, — the yell 
Of women thronging round the bed, — 

The tinkling charm of ring and shell, — ■ 
The Powah whispering o'er the dead ! — 

All these the Sachem's home had known, 
When, on her journey long and wild 

To the dim World of Souls, alone, 
In her young beauty passed the mother of his child. 

Three bow-shots from the Sachem's dwelling 
They laid her in the walnut shade. 

Where a green hillock gently swelling 
Her fitting- mound of burial made. 



Tlie Bridal of Pennacoolz. 47 

There trailed the vine in summer hours, 

The tree-perched squirrel dropped his shell, — 
On velvet moss and pale-hued flowers, 
Woven with leaf and spray, the softened sunshine fell ! 

The Indian's heart is hard and cold,^ 

'It closes darkly o'er its care, 
And formed in Nature's sternest mould. 

Is slow to feel, and strong to bear. 
The war-paint on the Sachem's face, 

Unwet with tears, shone tierce and red. 
And, still in battle or in chase. 
Dry leaf and snow-rime crisped beneath his foremost 
tread. 

Yet when her name was heard no more, 

And when the robe her mother gave, 
And small, light moccasin she wore. 

Had slowly wasted on her grave. 
Unmarked of him the dark maids sped 

Their sunset dance and moonlit play, 
No other shared his lonely bed, 
No other fair young head upon his bosom lay. 

A lone, stern man. Yet, as sometimes 

The tempest-smitten tree receives 
From one small root the. sap which climbs 

Its topmost spray and crowning leaves. 
So from his child the Sachem drew 

A life of Love and Hope, and felt 
His cold and rugged nature through 
The softness and the warmth of her young being melt. 

A laugh which in the woodland rang 
Bemocking April's gladdest bird. — 
A light and graceful form which sprang 

To meet him when his step was heard, — 
Eyes by his lodge-fire flashing dark. 

Small fingers stringing bead and shell 
Or weaving mats of bright-hued bark, — 
With these the household-god'"^ had graced his wigwam 
well. 



Child of the forest ! — strong and free. 
Slight-robed, with loosely flowing hair, 







•"k 



Child ok ihe forest I — strong and free, 
Slight-robed, with loosely flowing hair. 



The Bridal of Fe?inacook. 49 



She swam the lake or climbed the tree, 

Or struck the flying bird in air. 
O'er the heaped drifts of Winter's moon 

Her snow-shoes tracked the hunter's way ; 
And dazzling in the summer noon 
The blade of her light oar threw off its shower of spray 



Unknown to her the rigid rule. 

The dull restraint, the chiding frown, 
The weary torture of the school, 

The taming of wild nature down. 
Her only lore, the legends told 

Around the hunter's fire at night ; 
Stars rose and set, and seasons rolled. 
Flowers bloomed and snow-flakes fell, unquestioned 
her sight. 



Unknown to her the subtle skifl 
With which the artist-eye can trace 

In rock and tree and lake and hill 
The outlines of divinest grace ; 

Unknown the fine soul's keen unrest, 
Which sees, admires, yet yearns alway ; 

Too closely on her mother's breast 
To note her smiles of love the child of Nature lay 



in 



It is enough for such to be 

Of common, natural things a part. 
To feel, with bird and stream and tree. 
The pulses of the same great heart ; 
But we, from Nature long exiled 

In our cold homes of Art and Thought, 
Grieve like the stranger-tended child. 
Which seeks its mother's arms, and sees but feels them 
not. 

The garden rose may richly bloom 

In cultured soil and genial air 
To cloud the light of Fashion's room 

Or droop in Beauty's midnight hair, 
In lonelier grace, to sun and dew 

The sweetbrier on the hillside shows 
Its single leaf and fainter hue. 
Untrained and wildly free, yet still a sister rose ! 



5<2> 



Tlie Bridal of P£nnacook. 



Thus o'er the heart of Weetamoo 
Their mingUng shades of joy and ill 

The instincts of her nature threw, — 
The savage was a woman still. 

Midst outlines dim of maiden schemes, 
Heart-colored prophecies of life, 

Rose on the ground of her young dreams 
The light of a new home, — the lover and the wife. 




IV, 



ujf WEf>DiHG 



Cool and dark fell the autumn 
night, 
But the Bashaba's wigwam glowed with 

light. 
For down from its roof by green withes 

hung 
Flaring and smoking the pine-knots 
swung. 

And along the liver great wood-lires 
Shot into the night their long red spires, 
Showing behind the tall, dark wood, 
Flashing before on the sweeping flood. 

the changeful wind, with shimmer 
and shade, 
Now high, now low, the firelight played. 
On tree-leaves wet with evening dews, 
*On gliding water and still canoes. 



The trapper that night on Turee's brook, 
And the weary hsher on Contoocook, 
Saw over the marshes and through the pine, 
And down on the river the dance-lifrhts shine. 



For the Saugus Sachem had come to woo 
The Bashaba's daughter Weetamoo, 



The Bridal of Pciiiiacook. 51 

And laid at her father's feet that night 
His softest furs and wampum white. 

From the Crystal Hills to the far southeast 
The river Sagamores came to the feast ; 
And chiefs whose homes the sea-winds shook, 
Sat down on the mats of Pennacook, 

They came from Sunapee's shore of rock. 
From the snowy sources of Snooganock, 
And from rough Coos whose thick woods shake 
Their pine-cones in Umbagog Lake. 

From Ammonoosuck's mountain pass. 
Wild as his home, came Chepewass ; 
And the Keenomps of the hills which throw 
Their shade on the Smile of Manito. 

With pipes of peace and bows unstrung, 
Glowing with paint came old and young. 
In wampum and furs and feathers arrayed. 
To the dance and feast the Bashaba made. 

Bird of the air and beast of the field. 
All which the woods and waters yield. 
On dishes of birch and hemlock piled, 
Garnished and graced that banquet wild. 

Steaks of the brown bear fat and large 
From the rocky slopes of the Kearsarge ; 
Delicate trout from Babboosuck brook, 
And salmon speared in the Contoocook ; 

Squirrels which fed where nuts fell thick 
In the gravelly bed of the Otternic ; 
And small wild-hens in reed-snares caught 
From the banks of Sondagardee brought ; 

Pike and perch from the Suncook taken, 
Nuts from the trees of the Black Hills shaken, 
Cranberries picked in the Squamscot bog, 
And grapes from the vines of Piscataquog : 

And, drawn from that great stone vase which stands 
In the river scooped by a spirit's hands," 



52 The Bridal of Pennacook. 

Garnished with spoons of shell and horn, 
Stood the birchen dishes of smoking- corn. 



Thus bird of the air and beast of the field, 
All which the woods and the waters yield. 
Furnished in that olden day 
The bridal feast of the Bashaba. 



And merrily when that feast was done 
On the fire-lit green the dance begun. 
With squaws' shrill stave, and deeper hum 
Of old men beating the Indian drum. 

Painted and plumed, with scalp-locks flowing, 
And red arms tossing and black eyes glowing 
Now in the light and now in the shade 
Around the fires the dancers played. 

The step was quicker, the song more shrill, 
And the beat of the small drums louder still 
Whenever within the circle drev/ 
The Saugus Sachem and Weetamoo. 



The moons of forty winters had shed 
Their snow upon that chieftain's head. 
And toil and care, and battle's chance 
Had seamed his hard dark countenance. 



A fawn beside the bison grim, — 
Why turns the bride's fond eye on him, 
In whose cold look is naught beside 
The triumph of a sullen pride } 

Ask why the graceful grape entwines 
The rough oak with her arm of vines ; 
And why the gray rock's rugged cheek 
The soft lips of the mosses seek : 

Why, with wise instinct, Nature seems 
To harmonize her wide extremes. 
Linking the stronger with the weak. 
The haughty with the soft and meek ! 



The Bridal of Fennacook. 53 



V. THE NEW HOME. 

A WILD and broken landscape, spiked with hrs, 
Roughening the bleak horizon's northern edge, 

Steep, cavernous hillsides, where black hemlock spurs 
And sharp, gray si^inters of the wind-swept ledge 

Pierced the thin-glazed ice, or bristling rose. 

Where the cold rim of the sky sunk down upon the snows. 

And eastward cold, wide marshes stretched away. 

Dull, dreary fiats without a bush or tree, 
O'er-crossed by icy creeks, where twice a day 

Gurgled the waters of the moon-struck sea ; 
And faint with distance came the stifled roar, 
The melancholy lapse of waves on that low shore. 

No cheerful village with its mingling smokes. 
No laugh of children wrestling in the snow, 

No camp-fire blazing through the hillside oaks. 
No fishers kneeling on the ice below ; 

Yet midst all desolate things of sound and view. 

Through the long winter moons smiled dark-eyed Wee- 
tamoo. 



Her heart had found a home ; and freshly all 

Its beautiful affections overgrew 
Their rugged prop. As o'er some granite wall 

Soft vine-leaves open to the moistening dew 
And warm bright sun, the love of that young wife 
Found on a hard cold breast the dew and warmth of life. 



The steep bleak hills, the melancholy shore. 
The long dead level of the marsh between, 

A coloring of unreal beauty wore 

Through the soft golden mist of young love seen. 

For o'er those hills and from that dreary plain, 

Niofhtlv she welcomed home her hunter chief ag-ain. 



No warmth of heart, no passionate burst of feelin" 
Repaid her welcoming smile and parting kiss. 

No fond and playful dalliance half concealing. 
Under the guise of mirth, its tenderness ; 

But, in their stead, the warrior's settled pride. 

And vanity's pleased smile with homage satisfied. 



54 



The Bridal of Feiinacook. 



Enough for Weetamoo, that she 

alone 
Sat on his mat and slumbered 

at his side ; 
That he whose fame to her young 

ear had flown 
Now looked upon her proudly 

as his bride ; 
That he whose name the Mohawk 

trembling heard 
Vouchsafed to her at times a 

kindly look or word. 




A WILD AND BROKEN LANDSCAPE, SPIKED WITH 
FIRS. 



For she had learned the maxims of 
^ her race, 

Which teach the woman to be- 
come a slave 
And feel herself the pardonless disgrace 

Of love's fond weakness in the wise and brave, — 
The scandal and the shame which they incur, 
Who give to woman all which man requires of her. 



So passed the winter moons. The sun at last 
Broke link by link the frost chain of the rills. 

And the warm breathings of the southwest passed 
Over the hoar rime of the Saugus hills. 

The gray and desolate marsh grew green once more, 

And the birch-tree's tremulous shade fell round 
Sachem's door. 



the 



Then from far Pennacook swift runners came, 
With gift and greeting for the Saugus chief ; 

Beseeching him in the great Sachem's name. 
That, with the coming of the flower and leaf. 

The song of birds, the warm breeze and the rain, 

Young Weetamoo might greet her lonely sire again. 



The Bridal of Fciinacook. 



55 



V^-;- 



And Winnepurkit called his chiefs to- 
gether, 
And a grave council in his wigwam 
met, 

Solemn and brief in words, considering 
whether 
The rigid rules of forest etiquette 

Permitted Weetamoo once more to 
look 

Upon her father's face and green- 
banked Pennacook. 

With interludes of pipe-smoke and 

strong water, 
The forest sages pondered, and at 

length, 
Concluded in a body to escort her 
Up to her father's home of pride 

and strength. 
Impressing thus on Pennacook a sense 
Of Winnepurkit's power and regal 

consequence. 



So through old woods which Aukee- 
tamit's^* hand, 
A soft and many-shaded greenness 
lent, 

Over high breezy hills, and meadow land 

Yellow with flowers, the wild procession went. 
Till, rolling down its wooded banks between, 
A broad, clear mountain stream, the Merrimack was seen 




Young children peering through the 

WIGWAM doors. 



The hunter leaning on his bow undrawn. 
The fisher lounging on the pebbled shores. 

Squaws in the clearing dropping the seed-corn, 

Young children peering through the wigwam doors. 

Saw with delight, surrounded by her train 

Of painted Saugus braves, their Weetamoo again. 



VI. AT PENNACOOK. 



The hills are dearest which our childish feet 
Have climbed the earliest ; and the streams most sweet 
Are ever those at which our young lips drank. 
Stooped to their waters o'er the grassy bank : 



56 The Bridal of Pennacook. 

Midst the cold dreary sea-watch, Home's hearth-light 
Shines round the helmsman plunging through the night 
And still, with inward eye, the traveller sees 
In close, dark, stranger streets his native trees. 

The home-sick dreamer's brow is nightly fanned 
By breezes whispering of his native land. 
And on the stranger's dim and dying eye 
The soft, sweet pictures of his childhood lie. 

Joy then for Weetamoo, to sit once more 
A child upon her father's wigwam floor ! 
Once more with her old fondness to beguile 
From his cold eye the strange light of a smile. 

The long bright days of Summer swiftly passed, 
The dry leaves whirled in Autumn's rising blast, 
And evening cloud and whitening sunrise rime 
Told of the coming of the winter-time. 

But vainly looked, the while, young Weetamoo, 
Down the dark river for her chief's canoe ; 
No dusky messenger from Saugus brought 
The grateful tidings which the young wife sought. 

At length a runner from her father sent, 
To Winnepurkit's sea-cooled wigwam went : 
" Eagle of Saugus, — in the woods the dove 
Mourns for the shelter of thy wings of love." 

But the dark chief of Saugus turned aside 
In the grim anger of hard-hearted pride ; 
" I bore her as became a chieftain's daughter, 
Up to her home beside the gliding water. 

" If now no more a mat for her is found 

Of all w-hich line her father's wigwam round, 

Let Pennacook call out his warrior train, 

And send her back with wampum gifts again." 

The baffled runner turned upon his track. 
Bearing the words of Winnepurkit back. 
" Dog of the Marsh," cried Pennacook, " no more 
Shall child of mine sit on his wigwam floor. 



The Bridal of Fennacook. 



57 




RUNNER FROM HER 
SENT. 



" Go, — let him seek some meaner squaw to 

spread 
The stolen bear-skin of his beggar's bed : 
Son of a fish-hawk ! — let him dig his clams 
For some vile daughter of the Agawams, 

" Or coward Nipmucks I — may his scalp dry 

black 
In Mohawk smoke, before I send her back." 
He shook his clenched hand towards the ocean 

wave, 
While hoarse assent his listening council gave. 

Alas poor bride ! — can thy grim sire impart 
His iron hardness to thy woman's heart? 
Or cold self-torturing pride like his atone 
For love denied and life's warm beauty flown ? 



On Autumn's gray and mournful grave the snow 
Hung its white wreaths ; with stifled voice and low 
The river crept, by one vast bridge o'ercrossed, 
Built by the hoar-locked artisan of Frost. 

And many a Moon in beauty newly born 

Pierced the red sunset with her silver horn, 

Or, from the east, across her azure field 

Rolled the wide brightness of her full-orbed shield. 

Yet Winnepurkit came not, — on the mat 
Of the scorned wife her dusky rival sat ; 
And he, the while, in Western woods afar, 
Urged the long chase, or trod the path of war. 

Dry up thy tears, young daughter of a chief ! 
Waste not on him the sacredness of grief ,* 
Be the fierce spirit of thy sire thine own, 
His lips of scorning, and his heart of stone. 

What heeds the warrior of a hundred fights, 
The storm-worn watcher through long hunting nights, 
Cold, crafty, proud, of woman's weak distress. 
Her home-bound grief and pining loneliness } 

VII. THE DEPARTURE. 



The wild March rains had fallen fast and long 
The snowy mountains of the North among. 



The Bridal of Pcnnacook. 



Making each vale a watercourse, — each hill 
Bright with the cascade of some new-made rill. 

Gnawed by the sunbeams, softened by the rain, 
Heaved underneath by the swollen current's strain. 
The ice- bridge yielded, and the Merrimack 
Bore the huge ruin crashing down its track. 

On that strong turbid water, a small boat 
Guided by one weak hand was seen to float ; 
Evil the fate which loosed it from the shore, 
Too early voyager with too frail an oar ! 



4>,^ 




Empty and broken, circled the canoe. 

Down the vexed centre of that rushing tide, 
The thick huge ice-blocks threatening either side, 
The foam-white rocks of Amoskeag in view, 
With arrowy swiftness sped that light canoe. 

The trapper, moistening his moose's meat 

On the wet bank by Uncanoonuc's feet. 

Saw the swift boat flash down the troubled stream — 

Slept he, or waked he } — was it truth or dream } 

The straining eye bent fearfully before, 
The small hand clenching on the useless oar. 
The bead-wrought blanket trailing o'er the water — 
He knew them all — woe for the Sachem's daughter ! 

Sick and aweary of her lonely life. 
Heedless of peril the still faithful wife 
Had left her mother's grave, her father's door. 
To seek the wiewam of her chief once more. 



The Bridal of Peiinacook. 59 

Down the white rapids Hke a sear leaf whirled, 

On the sharp rocks and piled-up ices hurled, 

Empty and broken, circled the canoe 

In the vexed pool below — but, where was Weetamoo ? 



VIII. SOXG OF INDIAN WOMEN. 

The Dark eye has left us, 

The Spring-bird has flown ; 
On the pathway of spirits 
She wanders alone. 
The song of the wood-dove has died on our shore, — 
Mat 7uonck kiiniia-motiee f^'" — We hear it no more ! 

O dark water Spirit ! 

We cast on thy wave 
These furs which may never 
Hang over her grave ; 
Bear down to the lost one the robes that she wore. — 
Mat wonck kunna-Jiioiiee I — We see her no more ! 

Of the strange land she walks in 

No Powah has told : 
It may burn with the sunshine. 
Or freeze with the cold. 
Let us giv^e to our lost one the robes that she wore, 
Mat wonck kimna-inonee ! — We see her no more ! 

The path she is treading 
Shall soon be our own ; 
Each gliding in shadow 
Unseen and alone ! — 
In vain shall we call on the souls gone before, — 
Mat wonck kiinna-monee I — They hear us no more 

O mighty Sowanna ! ^^ 

Thy gateways unfold, 
From thy wigwam of sunset 
Lift curtains of gold ! 
Take home the poor Spirit whose journey is o'er, — 
Mat wonck kii7i7ta-monee ! — We see her no more ! 

So sang the Children of the Leaves beside 
The broad, dark river's coldly flowing tide, 



6o 



The Bridal of Pennacook. 



Now low, now harsh, with sob like pause and swell. 
On the high wind their voices rose and fell. 
Nature's wild music, — sounds of wind-swept trees. 
The scream of birds, the wailing of the breeze. 
The roar of waters, steady, deep, and strong, — 
Mingled and murmured in that farewell song. 




LEGENDARY. 



THE MERRIMACK. 

[" The Indians speak of a beautiful river, far to the south, which they call 
Merrimack." — Sieur de Monts : 1604.] 

Stream of my fathers ! sweetly still 

The sunset rays thy valley fill; 

Poured slantwise down the long defile, 

Wave, wood, and spire beneath them smile. 

I see the winding Powow fold 

The green hill in its belt of gold, 

And following down its wavy line, 

Its sparkling waters blend with thine. 

There 's not a tree upon thy side, 

Nor rock, which thy returning tide 

As yet hath left abrupt and stark 

Above thy evening water-mark ; 

No calm cove with its rocky hem, 

No isle whose emerald swells begem 

Thy broad, smooth current ; not a sail 

Bowed to the freshening ocean gale ; 

No small boat with its busy oars. 

Nor gray wall sloping to thy shores ; 

Nor farm-house with its maple shade, 

Or rigid poplar colonnade, 

But lies distinct and full in sight, 

Beneath this gush of sunset light. 

Centuries ago, that harbor-bar, 

Stretching its length of foam afar. 

And Salisbury's beach of shining sand, 

And yonder island's wave-smoothed strand. 

Saw the adventurer's tiny sail. 

Flit, stooping from the eastern gale f 

And o'er these woods and waters broke 

The cheer from Britain's hearts of oak, 

As brightly on the voyager's e}e, 

Weary of forest, sea, and sky, 



Legendaiy. 




Breaking the dull continuous 

wood, 
The Merrimack rolled down his 

flood; 
Mingling that clear pellucid 

brook, 
Which channels vast Agioo- 

chook 
When spring-time's sun and 

shower unlock 
The frozen fountains of the 

rock, 
And more abundant waters 

given 
From that pure lake, " The 

Smile of Heaven,"-* 
Tributes from vale and moun- 
tain-side, — 
With ocean's dark, eternal tide ! 




VONDEK LONELY COAST-LIGHT SHINES DIMLY THROUGH ITS 
CLOUDY VEIL. 



On yonder rocky cape, which braves 
The stormy challenge of the waves, 
Midst tangled vine and dwarfish wood, 
The hardy Anglo-Saxon stood. 
Planting upon the topmost crag 
The staff of England's battle-flag ; 
And, while from out its heavy fold 
Saint George's crimson cross unrolled. 
Midst roll of drum and trumpet blare, 
And weapons brandishing in air. 
He gave to that lone promontory 
The sweetest name in all his story ; "^^ 
Of her, the flower of Islam's daughters, 
Whose harems look on Stamboul's waters, 
Who, when the chance of war had bound 
The Moslem chain his limbs around, 



The Merrimack. ^3 



Wreathed o'er with silk that iron chain, 
Soothed with her smiles his hours of pain, 
And fondly to her youthful slave 
A dearer gift than freedom gave. 

But look !— the yellow light no more 
Streams down on wave and verdant shore ; 
And clearly on the calm air swells 
The twilight voice of distant bells. 
From Ocean's bosom, white and thin, 
The mists come slowly rolling in ; 
Hills, woods, the river's rocky rim. 
Amidst the sea-like vapor swim, 
While yonder lonely coast-light, set 
Within its wave-washed minaret. 
Half quenched, a beamless star and pale. 
Shines dimly through its cloudy veil ! 

Home of my fathers !— I have stood 
Where Hudson rolled his lordly flood : 
Seen sunrise rest and sunset fade 
Along his frowning Palisade ; 
Looked down the Appalachian peak 
On Juniata's silver streak ; 
Have seen along his valley gleam 
The Mohawk's softly winding stream ; 
The level light of sunset shine 
Through broad Potomac's hem of pme ; 
And autumn's rainbow-tinted banner 
Hang lightly o'er the Susquehanna ; 
Yet wheresoe'er his step might be. 
Thy wandering child looked back to thee ! 
Heard in his dreams thy river's sound 
Of murmuring on its pebbly bound, 
The unforgotten swell and roar 
Of waves on thv familiar shore ; 
And saw, amidst the curtained gloom 
And quiet of his lonely room. 
Thy sunset scenes before him pass ; 
As, in Agrippa's magic glass, 
The loved and lost arose to view, 
Remembered groves in greenness grew. 
Bathed still in childhood's morning dew. 
Along whose bowers of beauty swept 
Whatever Memory's mourners wept. 
Sweet faces, which the charnel kept, 
Young, gentle eyes, which long had slept 



64 



Lege?idary. 



And while the gazer leaned to trace, 
More near, some dear familiar face, 
He wept to find the vision flown, — 
A phantom and a dream alone ! 




THE NORSEMEN. 



Gift from the cold and silent Past ! 

A relic to the present cast ; 

Left on the ever-changing strand 

Of shifting and unstable sand. 

Which wastes beneath the steady chime 

And beating of the waves of Time ! 

Who from its bed of primal rock 

First wrenched thy dark, unshapely block ? 

Whose hand, of curious skill untaught. 

Thy rude and savage outline wrought ? 

The waters of my native stream 

Are glancing in the sun's warm beam : 



The Noi-semen, 65 



From sail-urged keel and flashing oar 
The circles widen to its shore : 
And cultured field and peopled town 
Slope to its willowed margin down. 
Yet, while this morning breeze is bringing 
The mellow sound of church bells ringing, 
And rolling wheel, and rapid jar 
Of the fire-winged and steedless car. 
And voices from the wayside near 
Come quick and blended on my ear, 
A spell is in this old gray stone,— 
My thoughts are with the Past alone ! 

A change !— The steepled town no more 

Stretches along the sail-thronged shore : 

Like palace-domes in sunset's cloud, 

Fade sun-gilt spire and mansion proud : 

Spectrally rising where they stood, 

I see the old, primeval wood : 

Dark, shadow-Uke, on either hand 

I see its solemn waste expand : 

It climbs the green and cultured hill. 

It arches o'er the valley's rill ; 

And leans from cliff and crag, to throw 

Its wdld arms o'er the stream below. 

Unchanged, alone, the same bright river 

Flows on, as it will flow forever ! 

I listen, and I hear the low 

Soft ripple where its waters go ; 

I hear behind the panther's cry, 

The wild-bird's scream goes thrilling by, 

And shyly on the river's brink 

The deer is stooping down to drink. 

But hark !— from wood and rock flung back, 
What sound comes up the Merrimack ? 
What sea-worn barks are those which throw 
The light spray from each rushing prow } 
Have they not'in the North Sea's blast 
Bowed to the waves the straining mast ? 
Their frozen sails the low, pale sun 
Of Thule's night has shone upon ; 
Flapped by the sea-wind's gusty sweep 
Round icy drift, and headland steep. 
Wild Jutland's wives and Lochlin's daughters 
Have watched them fading o'er the waters, 



()() Legendary 



Lessening through driving mist and spray, 
Like white-winged sea-birds on their way ! 

Onward they gUde, — and now I view 
Their iron-armed and stalwart crew ; 
Joy gHstens in each wild blue eye, 
Turned to green earth and summer sky : 
Each broad, seamed breast has cast aside 
Its cumbering vest of shaggy hide ; 
Bared to the sun and soft warm air, 
Streams back the Norsemen's yellow hair. 
I see the gleam of axe and spear, 
The sound of smitten shields I hear, 
Keeping a harsh and fitting time 
To Saga's chant, and Runic rhyme ; 
Such lays as Zetland's Scald has sung, 
His gray and naked isles among ; 
Or muttered low at midnight hour 
Round Odin's mossy stone of power. 
The wolf beneath the Arctic moon 
Has answered to that startling rune ; 
The Gaal has heard its stormy swell, 
The light Frank knows its summons well; 
lona's sable-stoled Culdee 
Has heard it sounding o'er the sea. 
And swept, with hoary beard and hair. 
His altar's foot in trembling prayer ! 

'T is past, — the 'wildering vision dies 
In darkness on my dreaming eyes ! 
The forest vanishes in air, — 
Hill-slope and vale lie starkly bare ; 
I hear the common tread of men. 
And hum of work-day life again : 
The mystic relic seems alone 
A broken mass of common stone ; 
And if it be the chiselled limb 
Of Berserkar or idol grim, — 
A fragment of Valhalla's Thor, 
The stormy Viking's god of War 
Or Praga of the Runic lay. 
Or love-awakening Siona, 
I know not, — for no graven line, 
Nor Druid mark, nor Runic sign, 
Is left me here, by which to trace 
Its name, or origin, or place. 



The Norsemen. 67 



Yet, for this vision of the Past, 

This glance upon its darkness cast, 

My spirit bows in gratitude 

Before the Giver of all good, 

Who fashioned so the human mind. 

That, from the waste of Time behind 

A simple stone, or mound of earth. 

Can summon the departed forth ; 

Quicken the Past to life again, — 

The Present lose in what hath been, 

And in their primal freshness show 

The buried forms of long ago. 

As if a portion of that Thought 

By which the Eternal will is wrought, 

Whose impulse fills anew with breath 

The frozen solitude of Death, 

To mortal mind were sometimes lent. 

To mortal musings sometimes sent, 

To whisper — even when it seems 

But Memory's fantasy of dreams — 

Through the mind's waste of woe and sin. 

Of an immortal origin ! 







; W 



\ 



68 Legendary. 



CASSANDRA SOUTHWICK. 

1658. 

To the God of all sure mercies let my blessing rise to-day, 
From the scoffer and the cruel He hath plucked the spoil 

away, — 
Yea, He who cooled the furnace around the faithful three, 
And tamed the Chaldean lions, hath set his handmaid free ! 

Last night I saw the sunset melt through my prison bars. 

Last night across my damp earth-floor fell the pale gleam of 
stars ; 

In the coldness and the darkness all through the long night- 
time. 

My grated casement whitened with autumn's early rime. 

Alone, in that dark sorrow, hour after hour crept by ; 
Star after star looked palely in and sank adown the sky ; 
No sound amid night's stillness, save that which seemed to be 
The dull and heavy beating of the pulses of the sea ; 

All night I sat unsleeping, for I knew that on the morrow 
The ruler and the cruel priest would mock me in my sorrow. 
Dragged to their place of market, and bargained for and sold, 
Like a lamb before the shambles, like a heifer from the fold ! 

O, the weakness of the flesh was there, — the shrinking and the 

shame ; 
And the low voice of the Tempter like whispers to me came : 
" Why sit'st thou thus forlornly !" the wicked murmur said, 
" Damp walls thy bower of beauty, cold earth thy maiden bed ? 

" Where be the smiling faces, and voices soft and sweet. 
Seen in thy father's dwelling, heard in the pleasant street.^ 
Where be the youths whose glances, the summer Sabbath 

through, 
Turned tenderly and timidly unto thy father's pew ? 

" Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra } — Bethink thee with what 

mirth 
Thy happy schoolmates gather around the warm bright hearth ; 
How the crimson shadows tremble on foreheads white and fair, 
On eyes of merry girlhood, half hid in golden hair. 




"Why sit'st thou here, Cassandra?' 



7o • Legendary. 



" Not for thee the hearth-fire brightens, not for thee kind 

words are spoken, 
Not for thee the nuts of Wen ham woods by laughing boys are 

broken. 
No first-fruits of the orchard within thy lap are laid. 
For thee no flowers of autumn the youthful hunters braid. 

" O, weak, deluded maiden ! — by crazy fancies led. 
With wild and raving railers an evil path to tread ; 
To leave a wholesome worship, and teaching pure and sound ; 
And mate with maniac women, loose-haired and sackcloth - 
bound. 

" Mad scoffers of the priesthood, who mock at things divine. 
Who rail against the pulpit, and holy bread and wine ; 
Sore from their cart-tail scourgings, and from the pillory lame. 
Rejoicing in their wretchedness, and glorying in their shame. 

" And what a fate awaits thee ? — a sadly toiling slave, 
Dragging the slowly lengthening chain of bondage to the grave ! 
Think of thy woman's nature, subdued in hopeless thrall. 
The easy prey of any, the scoff and scorn of all !" 

O, ever as the Tempter spoke, and feeble Nature's fears 
Wrung drop by drop the scalding flow of unavailing tears, 
I wrestled down the evil thoughts, and strove in silent prayer. 
To feel, O Helper of the weak ! that Thou indeed wert there ! 



I thought of Paul and Silas, within Philippi's cell, 
And how from Peter's sleeping limbs the prison-shackles fell, 
Till I seemed to hear the trailing of an angel's robe of white, 
And to feel a blessed presence invisible to sight. 

Bless the Lord for all his mercies ! — for the peace and love I felt, 
Like dew of Hermon's holy hill, upon my spirit melt ; 
When "Get behind me, Satan!" was the language of my heart. 
And I felt the Evil Tempter with all his doubts depart. 

Slow broke the gray cold morning ; again the sunshine fell. 
Flecked with the shade of bar and grate within my lonely cell ; 
The hoar-frost melted on the wall, and upward from the street 
Came careless laugh and idle word, and tread of passing feet. 

At length the heavy bolts fell back, my door was open cast. 
And slowly at the sheriff's side, up the long street I passed ; 
I heard the murmur round me, and felt, but dared not see. 
How, from every door and window, the people gazed on me. 



Cassandra Soicthwick. • 71 

And doubt and fear fell on me, shame burned upon my cheek. 
Swam earth and sky around me, my trembling limbs grew weak ; 
" O Lord ! support thy handmaid ; and from her soul cast out 
The fear of man, which brings a snare, — the weakness and the 
doubt." 

Then the dreary shadows scattered, like a cloud in morning's 

breeze. 
And a low deep voice within me seemed whispering words like 

these : 
" Though thy earth be as the iron, and thy heaven a brazen wall. 
Trust still His loving-kindness whose pov^'er is over all." 

We paused at length, where at my feet the sunlit waters broke 
On glaring reach of shining beach, and shingly wall of rock ; 
The merchant-ships lay idly there, in hard clear lines on high, 
Tracing with rope and slender spar their network on the sky. 

And there were ancient citizens, cloak-wrapped and grave and 

cold. 
And grim and stout sea-captains with faces bronzed and old, 
And on his horse, with Rawson, his cruel clerk at hand, 
Sat dark and haughty Endicott, the ruler of the land. 

And poisoning with his evil words the ruler's ready ear, 
The priest leaned o'er his saddle, w^th laugh and scoff and jeer; 
It stirred my soul, and from my lips the seal of silence broke, 
As if through woman's weakness a w^arning spirit spoke. 

I cried, " The Lord rebuke thee, thou smiter of the meek, 
Thou robber of the righteous, thou trampler of the weak ! 
Go light the dark, cold hearth-stones, — go turn the prison lock 
Of the poor hearts thou hast hunted, thou wolf amid the flock !" 

Dark lowered the brows of Endicott. and with a deeper red 
0"er Rawson 's wine-empurpled cheek the flush of anger spread ; 
"Good people," quoth the white-lipped priest, "heed not her 

words so wild, 
Her Master speaks within her, — the Devil owns his child !" 

But gray heads shook and young brows knit, the while the sheriff 

read 
That law the wicked rulers against the poor have made, 
Who to their house of Rimmon and idol priesthood bring 
No bended knee of worship, nor gainful offering. 



72 Legefidaiy. 



Then to the stout sea-captains the sheriff, turning-, said, — 
" Which of ye, worthy seamen, will take this Quaker maid? 
In the Isle of fair Barbadoes. or on Virginia s shore. 
You may hold her at a higher price than Indian girl or Moor." 

Grim and silent stood the captains ; and when again he cried, 
" Speak out, my worthy seamen !" — no voice, no sign replied ; 
But I felt a hard hand press my own, and kind words met my 

ear, — 
" God bless thee, and preserve thee, my gentle girl and dear !" 

A weight seemed lifted from my heart, — a pitying friend was 

nigh, 
I felt it in his hard, rough hand, and saw it in his eye ; 
And when again the sheriff spoke, that voice, so kind to me. 
Growled back its stormy answer like the roaring of the sea, — 

" Pile my ship with bars of silver, — pack with coins of Spanish 

gold. 
From keel-piece up to deck-plank, the roomage of her hold. 
By the living God who made me ! — I would sooner in your bay 
Sink ship and crew and cargo, than bear this child away !" 

" Well answered, worthy captain, shame on their cruel laws !" 
Ran through the crowd in murmurs loud the people's just ap- 
plause. 
" Like the herdsman of Tekoa, in Israel of old, 
vShall we see the poor and righteous again for silver sold?" 

I looked on haughty Endicott ; with weapon half-way drawn. 
Swept round the throng his lion glare of bitter hate and scorn ; 
Fiercely he drew his bridle-rein, and turned in silence back. 
And sneering priest and baffled clerk rode murmuring in his 
track. 

Hard after them the sheriff looked, in bitterness of soul ; 

Thrice smote his staff upon the ground, and crushed his parch- 
ment roll. 

"Good friends," he said, "since both have fled, the ruler and 
the priest. 

Judge ye, if from their further work I be not well released." 

Loud was the cheer which, full and clear, swept round the silent 

bay. 
As, with kind w^ords and kinder looks, he bade me go my way ; 



Funeral Tree of the Sokokis. 73 

For He who turns the courses of the streamlet of the glen, 
And the river of great waters, had turned the hearts of men. 

O, at that hour the very earth seemed changed beneath my eye, 
A hoHer wonder round me rose the blue walls of the sky, 
A lo\elier light on rock and hill and stream and woodland lay, 
And softer lapsed on sunnier sands the waters of the bay. 

Thanksgiving to the Lord of Hfe ! — to Him all praises be, 
Who from the hands of evil men hath set his handmaid free ; 
All praise to Him before whose power the mighty are afraid, 
Who takes the crafty in the snare which for the poor is laid ! 

Sing. O my soul, rejoicingly, on evening's twilight calm 
Uplift the loud thanksgiving, — pour forth the grateful psalm ; 
Let all dear hearts with me rejoice, as did the saints of old. 
When of the Lord's good angel the rescued Peter told. 

And weep and howl, ye evil priests and mighty men of wrong. 
The Lord shall smite the proud, and lay his hand upon the 

strong. 
W^oe to the wicked rulers in his avenging hour ! 
Woe to the wolves who seek the flocks to raven and devour ! 

But let the humble ones arise, — the poor in heart be glad. 
And let the mourning ones again with robes of praise be clad. 
For He who cooled the furnace, and smoothed the stormy wave. 
And tamed the Chaldean lions, is mighty still to save ! 



FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. 
1756. 

Around Sebago's lonely lake 
There lingers not a breeze to break 
The mirror which its waters make. 

The solemn pines along its shore, 

The firs which hang its gray rocks o'er, 

Are painted on its glassy floor. 

The sun looks o'er, with hazy eye, 
The snowy mountain-tops which lie 
Piled coldly up against the sky. 



74 



Legendary . 



Dazzling and white I save where the bleak, 
Wild winds have bared some splintering peak, 
Or snow-slide left its dusky streak. 

Yet green are Saco's banks below, 
And belts of spruce and cedar show. 
Dark fringing round those cones of snow. 




Her tokens of renewing care. 

The earth hath felt the breath of spring, 
Though yet on her deliverer's wing 
The lingering frosts of winter cling. 

Fresh grasses fringe the meadow-brooks 
And mildly from its sunny nooks 
The blue eye of the violet looks. 



And odors from the springing grass, 
The sweet birch and the sassafras. 
Upon the scarce-felt breezes pass. 



Funeral Tree of the Sokokis. 75 

Her tokens of renewing care 
Hath Nature scattered everywhere, 
In bud and tlower, and warmer air. 

But in their hour of bitterness, 
What reck the broken Sokokis, 
Beside their slaughtered chief, of this ? 

The turf's red stain is yet undried, — 
Scarce have the death- shot echoes died 



And silent now the hunters stand. 
Grouped darkly, where a swell of land 
Slopes upward from the lake's white sand. 

Fire and the axe have swept it bare, 
Save one lone beech, unclosing there 
Its light leaves in the vernal air. 

With grave, cold looks, all sternly mute, 
They break the damp turf at its foot, 
And bare its coiled and twisted root. 

They heave the stubborn trunk aside, 
The firm roots from the earth divide, — 
The rent beneath yawns dark and wide. 

And there the fallen chief is laid. 
In tasselled garb of skins arrayed, 
And girded with his wampum- braid. 

The silver cross he loved is pressed 
Beneath the heavy arms, which rest 
Upon his scarred and naked breast. 

'T is done : the roots are backward sent, 
The beechen-tree stands up unbent, — 
The Indian's fitting monument ! 

When of that sleeper's broken race 
Their green and pleasant dwelling-place 
Which knew them once, retains no trace ; 

O, long may sunset's light be shed 
As now upon that beech's head, — 
A green memorial of the dead ! 



76 



Legendary. 




The waves which break forever rouxu that lonely lake. 

There shall his fitting requiem be, 

In northern winds, that, cold and free, 

Howl nightly in that funeral tree. 

To their wild wail the waves which break 
Forever round that lonely lake 
A solemn undertone shall make ! 

And who shall deem the spot unblest. 
Where Nature's younger children rest, 
Lulled on their sorrowing mother's breast ? 



Deem ye that mother loveth less 
These bronzed forms of the wilderness 
She foldeth in her long caress ? 

As sweet o'er them her wild-flowers blow 
As if with fairer hair and brow 
The blue-eyed Saxon slept below. 



SL John. 77 

What though the phices of their rest 
No priestly knee hath ever pressed, — 
No funeral rite nor prayer liath blessed ? 

What though the bigot's ban be there, 
And thoughts of wailing and desj)air, 
And cursing in the place of pra}er ! 

Yet Heaven hath angels watching round 
The Indian "s lowliest forest-mound, — 
And tliey have made it huly ground. 

There ceases man's frail judgment; all 
His powerless bolts of cursing fall 
Unheeded on that grassy pall. 

O, peeled, and hunted, and reviled, 
Sleep on, dark tenant of the wild ! 
Great Nature owns her simple child ! 

And Nature's God, to whom alone 
The secret of the heart is known, — 
The hidden language traced thereon ; 

Who from its many cumberings 

Of form and creed, and outward things, 

To light the naked spirit brings ; 

Not with our partial eye shall scan, 
Not with our pride and scorn shall ban. 
The spirit of our brother man ! 



ST. JOHN. 
1647. 

" To the winds give our banner! 

Bear homeward again !" 
Cried the Lord of Acadia, 

Cried Charles of Estienne ; 
From the prow of his shallop 

He gazed, as the sun. 
From its bed in the ocean, 

Streamed up the St. John. 

O'er the blue western waters 
That shallop had passed, 



78 Legendary. 



Where the mists of Penobscot 
Clung- damp on her mast. 

St. Saviour had looiced 
On the heretic sail, 

As the songs of the Huguenot 
Rose on the gale. 

The pale, ghostly fathers 

Remembered her well, 
And had cursed her while passing, 

With taper and bell. 
But the men of Monhegan, 

Of Papists abhorred. 
Had welcomed and feasted 

The heretic Lord. 

They had loaded his shallop 

With dun-fish and ball, 
With stores for his larder, 

And steel for his wall. 
Pemequid, from her bastions 

And turrets of stone. 
Had welcomed his coming 

With banner and gun. 

And the prayers of the elders 

Had followed his way. 
As homeward he glided, 

Down Pentecost Bay. 
O, well sped La Tour ! 

For, in peril and pain, 
His lady kept watch. 

For his coming again. 

O'er the Isle of the Pheasant 

The morning sun shone. 
On the plane-trees which shaded 

The shores of St. John. 
" Now, why from yon battlements 

Speaks not my love ! 
W^hy waves there no banner 

My fortress above Y' 

Dark and wild from his deck 
St. Estienne gazed about. 

On fire-wasted dwellings. 
And silent redoubt ; 



St. John. 



79 



From the low, shattered walls 
Which the flame had o'errun, 

There floated no banner, 
There thundered no gun ! 

But beneath the low arch 
Of its doorway there stood 

A pale priest of Rome, 
In his cloak and his hood. 





There stood a iALE priest of Rome. 



With the bound of a lion, 
La Tour sprang to land. 

On the throat of the Papist 
He fastened his hand. 

" Speak, son of the Woman 

Of scarlet and sin ! 
What wolf has been prowling 
Mv castle within ?" 



8o Legendary, 



From the grasp of the soldier 

The Jesuit broke, 
Half in scorn, half in sorrow, 

He smiled as he spoke : 

" No wolf, Lord of Estienne, 

Has ravaged thy hall, 
But thy red-handed rival. 

With fire, steel, and ball ! 
On an errand of mercy 

I hitherward came. 
While the walls of thy castle 

Yet spouted with flame. 

" Pentagoet's dark vessels 

Were moored in the bay. 
Grim sea lions, roaring 

Aloud for their prey." 
" But what of my lady ?" 

Cried Charles of Estienne : x 
" On the shot-crumbled turret 

Thy lady was seen : 

" Half-veiled in the smoke-cloud, 

Her hand grasped thy pennon. 
While her dark tresses swayed 

In the hot breath of cannon ! 
But woe to the heretic, 

Evermore woe ! 
When the son of the church 

And the cross is his foe ! 

" In the track of the shell, 

In the path of the ball, 
Pentagoet swept over 

The breach of the wall ! 
Steel to steel, gun to gun. 

One moment, — and then 
Alone stood the victor. 

Alone with his men ! 

" Of its sturdy defenders. 

Thy lady alone 
Saw the cross-blazoned banner 

Float over St. John." 



Pe7itucket. 



8i 



" Let the dastard look to it !" 

Cried fiery Estienne, 
Were D'Aulney King Louis, 

I'd free her again !" 

" Alas for thy lady ! 

No service from thee 
Is needed by her 

Whom the Lord hath set free 
Nine days, in stern silence, 

Her thraldom she bore, 
But the tenth morning came, 

And Death opened her door ! " 




Half-veiled in the SMOKE-CLorn 
Her hand grasped thy pennon. 



As if suddenly smitten, 

La Tour staggered back ; 
His hand grasped his sword-hilt. 
His forehead grew black. 

He sprang on the deck 
Of his shallop again. 
" We cruise now for vengeance ! 
Give way !" cried Estienne. 

" Massachusetts shall hear 

Of the Huguenot's wrong, 
And from island and creekside 

Her fishers shall throng ! 
Pentagoet shall rue 

What his Papists have done, 
When his palisades echo 

The Puritan's gun !" 

O, the loveliest of heavens 

Hung tenderly o'er him. 
There were waves in the sunshine, 

And green isles before him : 
But a pale hand was beckoning 

The Huguenot on ; 
And in blackness and ashes 

Behind was St. John ! 



PENTUCKET. 

1708. 

How sweetly on the wood-girt town 
The mellow light of sunset shone ! 



82 Legendary. 



Each small, bright lake, whose waters still 
Mirror the forest and the hill, 
Reflected from its w^aveless breast 
The beauty of a cloudless west, 
Glorious as if a glimpse were given 
Within the western gates of heaven, 
Left, by the spirit of the star 
Of sunset's holy hour, ajar ! 



Beside the river's tranquil flood 
The dark and low-walled dwel'.ings stood. 
Where many a rood of open land 
Stretched up and down on either hand, 
With corn-leaves waving freshly green 
The thick and blackened stumps between. 
Behind, unbroken, deep and dread. 
The wild, untravelled forest spread. 
Back to those mountains, white and cold, 
Of which the Indian trapper told, 
Upon whose summits never yet 
Was mortal foot in safety set. 

Quiet and calm, without a fear 

Of danger darkly lurking near, 

The weary laborer left his plough, — 

The milkmaid carolled by her cow, — 

From cottage door and household hearth 

Rose songs of praise, or tones of mirth. 

At length the murmur died away. 

And silence on that village lay, — 

So slept Pompeii, tower and hall. 

Ere the quick earthquake swallowed all. 

Undreaming of the fiery fate 

Which made its dwellings desolate ! 

Hours passed away. By moonlight sped 
The Merrimack along his bed. 
Bathed in the pallid lustre, stood 
Dark cottage-wall and rock and wood, 
Silent, beneath that tranquil beam. 
As the hushed grouping of a dream. 
Yet on the still air crept a sound, — 
No bark of fox, nor rabbit's bound. 
Nor stir of wings, nor waters flowing. 
Nor leaves in midnight breezes blowing. 



Fentucket. 83 



Was that the tread of many feet, 

Which downward from the hillside beat ? 

What forms were those which darkly stood 

Just on the margin of the wood? — 

Charred tree-stumps in the moonlight dim, 

Or paling rude, or leafless limb ? 

No,— through the trees fierce eyeballs glowed, 

Dark human forms in moonshine showed. 

Wild from their native wilderness, 

With painted limbs and battle-dress ! 



■^■^'•k^. 




u»i^ 



The river willows, wet with dew. 

A yell the dead might wake to hear 
Swelled on the night air. far and clear, — 
Then smote the Indian tomahaw'k 
On crashing door and shattering lock, — 
Then rang the rifle-shot, — and then 
The shrill death-scream of stricken men, — 
Sank the red axe in woman's brain, 
And childhood's cry arose in vain, — 
Bursting through roof and window came, 
Red. fast, and fierce, the kindled flame ; 
And blended fire and moonlight glared 
On still dead men and weapons bared. 

The morning sun looked brightly through 
The river willows, wet with dew. 



84 Legendary. 



No sound of combat filled the air, — 
No shout was heard, — nor gunshot there: 
Yet still the thick and sullen smoke 
From smouldering ruins slowly broke ; 
And on the greensward many a stain, 
And, here and there, the mangled slain. 
Told how that midnight bolt had sped, 
Pentucket, on thy fated head ! 

Even now the villager can tell 
Where Rolfe beside his hearthstone fell, 
Still show the door of wasting oak, 
Through which the fatal death-shot broke, 
And point the curious stranger where 
De Rouville's corse lay grim and bare, — 
Whose hideous head, in death still feared. 
Bore not a trace of hair or beard, — 
And still, within the churchyard ground. 
Heaves darkly up the ancient mound, 
Whose grass-grown surface overlies 
The victims of that sacrifice. 



THE FAMILIST'S HYMN. 

Father ! to thy suft^ering poor 

Strength and grace and faith impart. 
And with thy own love restore 

Comfort to the broken heart ! 
O, the failing ones confirm 

With a holier strength of zeal ! — 
Give thou not the feeble worm 

Helpless to the spoiler's heel ! 

Father ! for thy holy sake 

We are spoiled and hunted thus ; 
Joyful, for thy truth we take 

Bonds and burthens unto us : 
Poor, and weak, and robbed of all, 

Weary with our daily task, 
That thy truth may never fall 

Through our weakness, Lord, we ask. 

Round our fired and wasted homes 
Flits the forest-bird unscared. 

And at noon the wild beast comes 
Where our frugal meal was shared ; 



The Faniilisf s Hymn. 85 



For tlie song, of praises there 

Shrieks the crow ihe livelong day ; 

For the sound of evening prayer 
Howls the evil beast of prey ! 

Sweet the songs we loved to sing 

Underneath thy holy sky, — 
Words and tones that used to bring 

Tears of joy in every eye, — 
Dear the wrestling hours of prayer. 

When we gathered knee to knee, 
Blameless youth and hoary hair. 

Bowed, O God, alone to thee. 

As thine early children, Lord, 

Shared their wealth and daily bread, 
Even so, with one accord, 

We, in love, each other fed. 
Not with us the miser's hoard. 

Not with us his grasping hand ; 
Equal round the common board, 

Drew our meek and brother band ! 

Safe our quiet Eden lay 

When the war-whoop stirred the land 
And the Indian turned away 

From our home his bloody hand. 
Well that forest-ranger saw. 

That the burthen and the curse 
Of the white man's cruel law 

Rested also upon us. 

Torn apart, and driven forth 

To our toiling hard and long, 
Father ! from the dust of earth 

Lift we still our grateful song! 
Grateful, — that in bonds we share 

In thy love which maketh free ; 
Joyful,— that the wrongs we bear. 

Draw us nearer. Lord, to thee ! 

Grateful !— that where'er we toil,— 
By Wachuset's wooded side. 

On Nantucket's sea-worn isle, 
Or by wild Neponset's tide, — 



86 Legendary 



Still, in spirit, we are near. 

And our evening hymns, which rise 
Separate and discordant here, 

Meet and mingle in the skies ! 

Let the scoffer scorn and mock, 

Let the proud and evil priest 
Rob the needy of his flock, 

For his wine-cup and his feast, — 
Redden not thy bolts in store 

Through the blackness of .thy skies? 
For the sighing of the poor 

Wilt Thou not, at length, arise ? 

Worn and wasted, oh ! how long 

Shall thy trodden poor complain ? 
In thy name they bear the wrong, 

In thy cause the bonds of pain I 
Melt oppression's heart of steel, 

Let the haughty priesthood see, 
And their blinded followers feel, 

That in us they mock at Thee ! 

In thy time, O Lord of hosts. 

Stretch abroad that hand to save 
Which of old, on Egypt's coasts, 

Smote apart the Red Sea's wave ! 
Lead us from this evil land, 

From the spoiler set us free. 
And once more our gathered band, 

Heart to heart, shall worship thee ! 



THE FOUNTAIN. 

Traveller ! on thy journey toiling 

By the swift Powow, 
With the summer sunshine falling 

On thy heated brow, 
Listen, while all else is still, 
To the brooklet from. the hill. 

Wild and sweet the flowers are blowing 

By that streamlet's side, 
And a greener verdure showing 

Where its waters glide, — 
Down the hill-slope murmuring on, 
Over root and mossy stone. 



The Fountain. 



87 



Where yon oak his broad arms flingelh 

O'er the sloping hill, 
Beautiful and freshly springeth 

That soft-tiowing rill. 
Through its dark roots wreathed and bare, 
Gushing up to sun and air. 



^5^ec?^-. 




Where yon oak his broad arms flingeth. 



Brighter waters sparkled never 

In that magic well, 
Of whose gift of life forever 

Ancient legends tell, — 
In the lonely desert wasted. 
And by mortal lip untasted. 

Waters which the proud Castilian ^* 
Sought with longing eyes, 



88 Legendary 



Underneath the bright pavilion 

Of the Indian skies ; 
Where his forest pathway lay 
Through the blooms of Florida. 

Years ago a lonely stranger, 

With the dusky brow 
Of the outcast forest-ranger. 

Crossed the swift Powow ; 
And betook him to the rill 
And the oak upon the hill. 

O'er his face of moody sadness 

For an instant shone 
Something like a gleam of gladness. 

As he stooped him down 
To the fountain's grassy side, 
And his eager thirst supplied. 

With the oak its shadow throwing 

O'er his mossy seat, 
And the cool, sweet waters flowing 

Softly at his feet. 
Closely by the fountain's rim 
That lone Indian seated him. 

Autumn's earliest frost had given 

To the woods below 
Hues of beauty, such as heaven 

Lendeth to its bow ; 
And the soft breeze from the west 
Scarcely broke their dreamy rest. 

Far behind was Ocean striving 

With his chains of sand ; 
Southward, sunny glimpses giving, 

'Twixt the swells of land„ 
Of its calm and silvery track. 
Rolled the tranquil Merrimack. 

Over village, wood, and meadow 

Gazed that stranger man. 
Sadly, till the twilight shadow 

Over all things ran. 
Save where spire and westward pane 
Plashed the sunset back again. 



The Fountain. 89 



Gazing- thus upon the dwelUng- 

Of his warrior sires, 
Where no Hngering trace was telUng 

Of then- wigwam tires, 
Who the gloomy thoughts might know 
Of that wandering child of woe ? 

Naked lay, in sunshine glowing. 

Hills that once had stood 
Down their sides the shadows throwing 

Of a mighty wood, 
Where the deer his covert kept. 
And the eagle's pinions swept ! 

Where the birch canoe had glided 

Down the swift Powow, 
Dark and gloomy bridges strided 

Those clear waters now ; 
And where once the beaver swam, 
Jarred the wheel and frowned the dam. 

For the wood-bird's merry singing. 

And the hunter's cheer. 
Iron clang and hammer's ringing 

Smote upon his ear ; 
And the thick and sullen smoke 
From the blackened forges broke. 

Could it be his fathers ever 

Loved to linger here } 
These bare hills, this conquered river,-- 

Could they hold them dear, 
WJith their native loveliness 
Tamed and tortured into this .'' 

Sadly, as the shades of even 

Gathered o'er the hill. 
While the western half of heaven 

Blushed with sunset still, 
From the fountain's mossy seat 
Turned the Indian's weary feet. 

Year on }ear hath flown forever. 

But he came no more 
To the hillside or the river 

Where he came before. 



90 Legendary. 



But the villager can tell 

Of that strange man's visit well. 

And the merry children, laden 
With their fruits or fiovvers, — 

Roving boy and laughing maiden. 
In their school-day hours, 

Love the simple tale to tell 

Of the Indian and his well. 



THE EXILES. 
1660. 

The goodman sat beside his door 

One sultry afternoon, 
With his young wife singing at his side 

An old and goodly tune. 

A glimmer of heat was in the air ; 

The dark green woods were still ; 
And the skirts of a heavy thunder-cloud 

Hung over the western hill. 

Black, thick, and vast arose that cloud 

Above the wilderness. 
As some dark world from upper air 

Were stooping over this. 

At times the solemn thunder pealed, 

And all was still again, * 

Save a low murmur in the air 

Of coming wind and rain. 

Just as the first big rain-drop fell, 

A weary stranger came, 
And stood before the farmer's door 

With travel soiled and lame. 

Sad seemed he, yet sustaining hope 

Was in his quiet glance, 
And peace, like autumn's moonlight, clothed 

His tranquil countenance. 




'J'hE merry children-, laden with their FRl'ITS OR FLOWERS. 



9 2 Legendary. 



A look, like that his Master wore 

In Pilate's council-hall : 
It told of wrongs, — but of a love 

Meekly forgiving all. 

" Friend ! wilt thou give me shelter here ?' 

The stranger meekly said ; 
And, leaning on his oaken staff, 

The goodman's features read. 

" My life is hunted, — evil men 

Are following in my track ; 
The traces of the torturer's whip 

Are on my aged back. 

" And much, I fear, 't will peril thee 

Within thy doors to take 
A hunted seeker of the Truth, 

Oppressed for conscience' sake." 

O, kindly spoke the goodman's wife, — 
" Come in. old man !" quoth she. — 

" We will not leave thee to the storm, 
Whoever thou mayst be." 

Then came the aged wanderer in, 

And silent sat him down ; 
While all within grew dark as night 

Beneath the storm-cloud's frown. 

But while the sudden lightning's blaze 

Filled every cottage nook. 
And with the jarring thunder-roll 

The loosened casements shook. 

A heavy tramp of horses' feet 

Came sounding up the lane, 
And half a score of horse, or more. 

Came plunging through the rain. 

•' Now, Goodman Macey, ope thy door, — 
We would not be house-breakers ; 

A rueful deed thou 'st done this day, 
In harboring banished Quakers." 



The Exiles. 93 



Out looked the cautious goodman then, 

With much of fear and awe, 
For there, with broad wig drenched with rain. 

The parish priest he saw. 

" Open thy door, thou wicked man, 

And let thy pastor in. 
And give God thanks, if forty stripes 

Repay thy deadly sin." 

"What seek ye }" quoth the goodman, — 

" The stranger is my guest : 
He is worn with toil and grievous wrong,— 

Pray let the old man rest." 

" Now, out upon thee, canting knave !" 
And strong hands shook the door. 

" Believe me, Macey," quoth the priest, — 
" Thou 'It rue thy conduct sore." 

Then kindled Macey's eye of fire : 

" No priest who walks the earth 
Shall pluck away the stranger-guest 

Made welcome to my hearth." 

Down from his cottage wall he caught 

The matchlock, hotly tried 
At Preston-pans and Marston-moor, 

By fiery Ireton's side; 

W^here Puritan, and Cavalier, 

With shout and psalm contended ; 

And Rupert's oath, and Cromwell's prayer, 
With battle-thunder blended. 

Up rose the ancient stranger then : 

" My spirit is not free 
To bring the wrath and violence 

Of evil men on thee : 

" And for thyself, I pray forbear, — 

Bethink thee of thy Lord, 
Who healed again the smitten ear, 

And sheathed his follower's sword. 



94 Legendary. 



" I go, as to the slaughter led : 
Friends of the poor, farewell !" 

Beneath his hand the oaken door 
Back on its hinges fell. 

" Come forth, old graybeard, yea and nay," 

The reckless scoffers cried, 
As to a horseman's saddle-bow 

The old man's arms were tied. 

And of his bondage hard and long 

In Boston's crowded jail, 
Where suffering woman's prayer was heard, 

With sickening childhood's wail, 

It suits not with our tale to tell : 
Those scenes have passed away, — 

Let the dim shadows of the past 
Brood o'er that evil day. 

" Ho, sheriff !" quoth the ardent priest,— 

" Take Goodman Macey too ; 
The sin of this day's heresy 

His back or purse shall rue." 

And priest and sheriff, both together, 

Upon his threshold stood ; 
When Macey, through another door, 

Sprang out into the wood. 

" Now, goodvi'ife, haste thee !" Macey cried, 

She caught his manly arm : — 
Behind, the parson urged pursuit. 

With outcry and alarm. 

Ho ! speed the Maceys, neck or naught, — 

The river-course was near: — 
The ])lashing on its pebbled shore 

Was music to their ear. 

A gray rock, tasselled o'er with birch, 

Above the waters hung. 
And at its base, with every wave, 

A small light w^herry swung. 



The Exiles. 



A leap— they gain the boat— and there 
The goodman wields his oar : 

" 111 luck betide them all,"— he cried, — 
" The laggards upon the shore." 

Down through the crashing underw^ood. 

The burly sheriff came : — 
" Stand, Goodman Macey,— yield thyself 

Yield in the King's own name." 



95 




• Stand, Goodman Macey,— yield thyself ; yield in the King's own name. 

" Now out upon thy hangman's face !" 

Bold Macey answered then,— 
" Whip women, on the village green, 

But meddle not with 7}ieny 

The priest came panting to the shore, — 
His grave cocked hat was gone ; 

Behind him, like some owl's nest, hung 
His wig upon a thorn. 

" Come back,— come back !" the parson cried. 

" The church's curse beware," 
" Curse, an' thou wilt," said xMacey, " but 

Thy blessing prithee spare." 



g6 Legcndaryi 



" Vile scoffer !" cried the baffled priest, — 

" Thou 'It yet the gallows see.'" 
" Who 's born to be hanged, will not be drowned, 

Quoth Macey, merrily ; 

" And so, sir sheriff and priest, good by !" 

He bent him to his oar, 
And the small boat glided quietly 

From the twain upon the shore. 

Now in the west, the heavy clouds 

Scattered and fell asunder, 
While feebler came the rush of rain, 

And fainter growled the thunder. 

And through the broken clouds, the sun 

Looked out serene and warm. 
Painting its holy symbol-light 

Upon the passing storm. 

O, beautiful ! that rainbow span, 

O'er dim Crane-neck was bended ;— 

One bright foot touched the eastern hills, 
And one with ocean blended. 

By green Pentucket's southern slope 

The small boat glided fast, — 
The watchers of " the Block-house" saw 

The strangers as they passed. 

That night a stalwart garrison 

Sat shaking in their shoes, 
To hear the dip of Indian oars, — 

The glide of birch canoes. 

The fisher-wives of Salisbury', 

(The men were all aw^ay,) 
Looked out to see the stranger oar 

Upon their waters play. 

Deer-Island's rocks and fir-trees threw 

Their sunset-shadows o'er them, 
And Newbury's spire and weathercock 

Peered o'er the pines before them. 



The Exiles. 97 

Around the Black Rocks, on their left, 

The marsh lay broad and green ; 
And on their right, with dwarf shrubs crowned. 

Plum Island's hills were seen. 

With skilful hand and wary eye 

The harbor- bar was crossed ;- 
A plaything of the restless wave. 

The boat on ocean tossed. 



The glory of the sunset heaven 

On land and water lay, — 
On the steep hills of Agawam, 

On cape, and bluff, and bay. 

They passed the gray rocks of Cape Ann, 
And Gloucester's harbor-bar ; 

The watch-fire of the garrison 
Shone Uke a setting star. 

How brightly broke the morning 

On Massachusetts Bay ! 
Blue wave, and bright green island. 

Rejoicing in the day. 

On passed the bark in safety 

Round isle and headland steep, — 

No tempest broke above them. 
No fog-cloud veiled the deep. 

Far round the bleak and stormy Cape 

The vent'rous Macey passed, 
And on Nantucket's naked isle 

Drew up his boat at last. 

And how, in log-built cabin. 

They braved the rough sea-weather ; 
And there, in peace and quietness. 

Went down life's vale together : 

How others drew around them. 

And how their fishing sped. 
Until to every wind of heaven 

Nantucket's sails were spread ; 



9^ Legendary. 




In log-built cabin they braved the rough sea-weaihek. 

How pale Want alternated 

With Plenty's golden smile ; 
Behold, is it not written 

In the annals of the isle ? 

And yet that isle remaineth 

A refuge of the free, 
As when true-hearted Macey 

Beheld it from the sea. 

Free as the winds that winnow 
Her shrubless hills of sand, — 

Free as the waves that batter 
Along her yielding land. 

Than hers, at duty's summons, 

No loftier spirit stirs, — 
Nor falls o'er human suffering 

A readier tear than hers. 

God bless the sea-beat island ! — 

And grant forevermore. 
That charity and freedom dwell 

As now upon her shore ! 



THE NEW WIFE AND THE OLD. 

Dark the halls, and cold the feast,— 
Gone the bridemaids, gone the priest : 
All is over,— all is done, 
Twain of yesterday are one ! 
Blooming girl and manhood gray, 
Autumn in the arms of May ! 



The New Wife and the Old. 99 



Hushed within and hushed without. 
Dancing feet and wrestlers' shout ; 
Dies the bonfire on the hill ; 
All is dark and all is still, 
Save the starlight, save the breeze 
Moaning through the graveyard trees ; 
And the great sea- waves below, 
Like the night's pulse, beating slow. 

From the brief dream of a bride 
She hath wakened, at his side. 
With half-uttered shriek and start,— 
Feels she not his beating heart ? 
And the pressure of his arm, 
And his breathing near and warm ? 

Lightlv from the bridal bed 
Springs that fair dishevelled head, 
And a feeling, new, intense, 
Half of shame, half innocence. 
Maiden fear and wonder speaks 
Through her lips and changing cheeks. 

From the oaken mantel glowing 
Faintest light the lamp is throwing 
On the mirror's antique mould, 
High-backed chair, and wainscot old. 
And, through faded curtains stealing. 
His dark sleeping face revealing. 

Listless lies the strong man there, 
Silver-streaked his careless hair ; 
Lips of love have left no trace 
On that hard and haughty face ; 
And that forehead's knitted thought 
Love's soft hand hath not unwrought. 

" Yet," she sighs, " he loves me well, 
More than these calm lips will tell. 
Stooping to my lowly state, 
He hath made me rich and great. 
And I bless him, though he be ^^ 
Hard and stern to all save me !" 

While she speaketh, falls the light 
O'er her fingers small and white ; 




Gold and gem< and costly ring back the timid lustre fling. 



The New Wife and the Old. 



Gold and gem, and costly ring 
Back the timid lustre fling, — 
Love's selectest gifts, and rare, 
His proud hand had fastened there. 

Gratefully she marks the glow 
From those tapering lines of snow ; 
Fondly o'er the sleeper bending 
His black hair with golden blending, 
In her soft and light caress. 
Cheek and lip together press. 

Ha !— that start of horror !— Why 
That wild stare and wilder cry, 
Full of terror, full of pain ? 
Is there madness in her brain ? 
Hark ! that gasping, hoarse and low, 
" Spare me, — spare me,— let me go !" 

God have mercy ! — Icy cold 
Spectral hands her own enfold, 
Drawing silently from them 
Love's fair gifts of gold and gem, 
" Waken ! save me !" still as death 
At her side he slumbereth. 

Ring and bracelet all are gone. 
And that ice-cold hand withdrawn ; 
But she hears a murmur low. 
Full of sweetness, full of woe. 
Half a sigh and half a moan : 
*' Fear not ! give the dead her own !" 

Ah ! — the dead wife's voice she knows ! 
That cold hand, whose pressure froze, 
Once in warmest life had borne 
Gem and band her own hath worn. 
" Wake thee ! wake thee !" Lo, his eyes 
Open with a dull surprise. 

In his arms the strong man folds her, 
Closer to his breast he holds her ; 
Trembling limbs his own are meeting, 
And he feels her heart's quick beating : 
"Nay, my dearest, why this fear. ^" 
"Hush!" she saith, "the dead is here!" 



102 Legendary . 



" Nay, a dream, — an idle dream." 
But before the lamp's pale gleam 
Tremblingly her hand she raises, — 
There no more the diamond blades, 
Clasp of pearl, or ring of gold, — 
" Ah !" she sighs, " her hand was cold 1" 

Broken words of cheer he saith, 

But his dark lip quivereth, 

And as o'er the past he thinketh. 

From his young wife's arms he shrinketh ; 

Can those soft arms round him lie, 

Underneath his dead wife's eye ? 

She her fair young head can rest 

Soothed and childlike on his breast. 

And in trustful innocence 

Draw new strength and courage thence ; 

He, the proud man, feels within 

But the cowardice of sin ! 

She can murmur in her thought 
Simple prayers her mother taught, 
And His blessed angels call. 
Whose great love is over all ; 
He, alone, in prayeriess pride. 
Meets the dark Past at her side I 

One, who living shrank with dread 
From his look, or word, or tread. 
Unto v^-hom her early grave 
Was as freedom to the slave, 
Moves him at this midnight hour, 
With the dead's unconscious power ! 

Ah, the dead, the unforgot ! 

From their solemn homes of thought. 

Where the cypress shadows blend 

Darkly over foe and friend. 

Or in love or sad rebuke, 

Back upon the living look. 

And the tenderest ones and weakest, 
Who their wrongs have borne the meekest, 
Lifting from those dark, still places, 
Sweet and sad-remembered faces, 
O'er the guilty hearts behind 
An unwitting triumph find. 









TOUSSAINT UOUVERTURE.^^ 

'T WAS night. The tranquil moonhght smile 
With which Heaven dreams of Earth, shed down 

Its beauty on the Indian isle, — 

On broad green tneld and white-walled town ; 

And inland waste of rock and wood, 

In searching sunshine, wild and rude, 

Rose, mellowed through the silver gleam. 

Soft as the landscape of a dream, 

All motionless and dewy wet, 

Tree, vine, and flower in shadow met : 

The myrtle with its snowy bloom, 

Crossing the nightshade's solemn gloom, — 

The white cecropia's silver rind 

Relieved by deeper green behind, — 

The orange with its fruit of gold, — 

The lithe paullinia's verdant fold, — 

The passion-flower, with symbol holy, 

Twining its tendrils long and lowly, — 

The rhexias dark, and cassia tall, 

And proudly rising over all. 

The kingly palm's imperial stem. 

Crowned with its leafy diadem, 



I04 Voices of Freedom. 



Star-like, beneath whose sombre shade, 
The tiery-winged cucuUo ])layed ! 
Yes, — lovely was thine aspect, then, 

Fair island of the Western Sea ! 
Lavish of beauty, even when 
Thy brutes were happier than thy men, 

For they, at least, were free ! 
Regardless of thy glorious clime, 

Unmindful of thy soil of flowers. 
The toiling negro sighed, that Time 

No faster sped his hours. 




Tree, vine, and flower in shadow met. 

For, by the dewy moonlight still, 

He fed the weary-turning mill, 

Or bent him in the chill morass. 

To pluck the long and tangled grass, 

And hear above his scar- worn back 

The heavy slave- whip's frequent crack : 

While in his heart one evil thought 

In solitary madness wrought. 

One baleful fire surviving still 

The quenching of the immortal mind, 
One sterner passion of his kind, 
Which even fetters could not kill — 



Toussaint J^' Ouverture. 105 



The savage hope, to deal, erelong, 
A vengeance bitterer than his wrong ! 

Hark to that cry !— long, loud, and shrill. 
From held and forest, rock and hill. 
Thrilling and horrible it rang, 

Around, beneath, above ; — 
The wild beast from his cavern sprang, 

The wild bird from her grove ! 
Nor fear, nor joy, nor agony 
Were mingled in that midnight cry ; 
But like the lion's growl of wrath. 
When falls that hunter in his path 
Whose barbed arrow, deeply set. 
Is rankling in his bosom yet. 
It told of hate, full, deep, and strong. 
Of vengeance kindling out of wrong ; 
It was as if the crimes of years — 
The unrequited toil, the tears. 
The shame and hate, which liken well 
Earth's garden to the nether hell- 
Had found in nature's self a tongue. 
On which the gathered horror hung ; 
As if from cliff, and stream, and glen 
Burst on the startled ears of men 
That voice which rises unto God, 
Solemn and stern,— the cry of blood ! 
It ceased,— and all was still once more, 
Save ocean chafing on his shore. 
The sighing of the wind between 
The broad banana's leaves of green, 
Or bough by restless plumage shook, 
Or murmuring voice of mountain brook. 

Brief was the silence. Once again 

Pealed to the skies that frantic yell, 
Glowed on the heavens a fiery stain. 

And flashes rose and fell ; 
And painted on the blood-red sky, 
Dark, naked arms were tossed on high ; 
And, round the white man's lordly hall, 

Trod, fierce and free, the brute he made 
And those who crept along the wall. 
And answered to his lightest call 

With more than spaniel dread, — 
The creatures of his lawless beck, — 
Were trampling on his very neck ! 



io6 Voices of^ Freedom. 



And on the night-air, wild and clear, 
Rose woman's shriek of more than fear ; 
For bloodied arms were round her thrown. 
And dark cheeks pressed against her own ! 

Then, injured Afric ! — for the shame 
Of thy own daughters, vengeance came 
Full on the scornful hearts of those. 
Who mocked thee in thy nameless woes, 
And to thy hapless children gave 
One choice, — pollution or the grave ! 
Where then was he whose fiery zeal 
Had taught the trampled heart to feel, 
Until despair itself grew strong. 
And vengeance fed its torch from wrong? 
Now, when the thunderbolt is speeding ; 
Now, when oppression's heart is bleeding ; 
Now, when the latent curse of Time 

Is raining down in fire and blood, — 
That curse which, through long years of crime, 

Has gathered, drop by drop, its flood, — 
W^hy strikes he not, the foremost one. 
Where murder's sternest deeds are done ? 

He stood the aged palms beneath, 

That shadowed o'er his humble door, 
Listening, with half-suspended breath. 
To the wild sounds of fear and death, 

Toussaint I'Ouverture ! 
What marvel that his heart beat high ! 

The blow for freedom had been given, 
And blood had answered to the cry 

Which Earth sent up to Heaven ! 
What marvel that a fierce delight 
Smiled grimly o'er his brow of night, — 
As groan and shout and bursting flame 
Told where the midnight tempest came, 
With blood and fire along its \'an. 
And death behind ! — he was a Man ! 

Yes, dark-souled chieftain ! — if the light 

Of mild Religion's heavenly ray 
Unveiled not to thy mental sight 

The lowlier and the purer way. 
In which the Holy Sufferer trod, 

Meekly amidst the sons of crime, — 
That calm reliance upon God 

For justice in his own good time, — 



Toussaint L' Ouverture. 107 



That g^entleness to which belongs 
Forgiveness for its many wrongs, 
Even as the primal martyr, kneeling 
For mercy on the evil-dealing, — 
Let not the favored white man name 
Thy stern appeal, with words of blame. 
Has he not, with the light of heaven 

Broadly around him, made the same ? 
Yea, on his thousand war-fields striven. 

And gloried in his ghastly shame ? — 
Kneeling amidst his brother's blood, 
To offer mockery unto God, 
As if the High and Holy One 
Could smile on deeds of murder done !— 
As if a human sacrifice 
Were purer in his Holy eyes. 
Though offered up by Christian hands. 
Than the foul rites of Pagan lands ! 



Sternly, amidst his household band. 
His carbine grasped within his hand. 

The white man stood, prepared and still. 
Waiting the shock of maddened men. 
Unchained, and fierce as tigers, when 

The horn winds through their caverned hil 
And one was weeping in his sight, — 

The sweetest flower of all the isle, — 
The bride who seemed but yesternight 

Love's fair embodied smile. 
And, clinging to her trembling knee, 
Looked up the form of infancy, 
With tearful glance in either face 
The secret of its fear to trace. 

" Ha ! stand or die !" The white man's eye 

His steady musket gleamed along, 
As a tall Negro hastened nigh. 

With fearless step and strong. 
" What, ho, Toussaint !" A moment more, 
His shadow crossed the lighted floor. 
" Away !" he shouted ; *' fly with me, — 
The white man's bark is on the sea ; — 
Her sails must catch the seaward wind. 
For sudden vengeance sweeps behind. 
Our brethren from their graves have spoken. 
The yoke is spurned. — the chain is broken ; 



loS Voices of Freedom. 

On all the hills our fires are glowing, — 

Through all the vales red blood is flowing ! 

No more the mocking White shall rest 

His foot upon the Negro's breast ; 

No more, at morn or eve, shall drip 

The warm blood from the driver's whip : 

Yet, though Toussaint has vengeance sworn 

For all the wrongs his race have borne,— 

Though for each drop of Negro blood 

The white man's veins shall pour a flood ; 

Not all alone the sense of ill 

Around his heart is lingering still. 

Nor deeper can the white man feel 

The generous warmth of grateful zeal. 

Friends of the Negro ! fly with me, — 

The path is open to the sea : 

Away, for life !" — He spoke, and pressed 

The young child to his manly breast. 

As, headlong, through the cracking cane, 

Down swept the dark insurgent train,— 

Drunken and grim, with shout and yell 

Howled through the dark, like sounds from hell. 

Far out, in peace, the white man's sail 
Swayed free before the sunrise gale. 
Cloud-like that island hung afar, 

Along the bright horizon's verge. 
O'er which the curse of servile war 

Rolled its red torrent, surge on surge ; 
And he — the Negro champion — where 

In the fierce tumult struggled he .'' 
Go trace him by the fiery glare 
Of dwellings in the midnight air, — 
The yells of triumph and despair, — 

The streams that crimson to the sea ! 

Sleep calmly in thy dungeon-tomb. 

Beneath Besan^on's alien sky. 
Dark Haytien ! — for the time shall come. 

Yea, even now is nigh, — 
When, everyw^here, thy name shall be 
Redeemed from color s infamy ; 
And men shall learn to speak of thee. 
As one of earth's great spirits, born 
In servitude, and nursed in scorn, 
Casting aside the weary weight 
And fetters of its low estate, 



77/6- Shur-S/iips. 109 

In that strong- majesty of soul 

Which knows no color, tongue, or clime, — 
Which still hath spurned the base control 

Of tyrants through all time ! 
Far other hands than mine may wreathe 
The laurel round thy brow of death. 
And speak thy praise, as one whose word 
A thousand fiery spirits stirred, — 
Who crushed his foeman as a worm, — 
W^hose stej) on human hearts fell firm : — ^^ 
Be mine the better task to find 
A tribute for thy lofty mind, 
Amidst whose gloomy vengeance shone 
Some milder virtues all thine own, — 
Some gleams of feeling pure and warm. 
Like sunshine on a sky of storm, — 
Proofs that the Negro's heart retains 
Some nobleness amidst its chains, — 
That kindness to the wronged is never 

Without its excellent reward, — 
Holy to human-kind and ever 

Acceptable to God. 



THE SLAVE-SHIPS.^* 

" That fatal, that perfidious bark, 
P.uilt i' the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark." 

Milton's Lycidaa. 



iin 



" All ready ?" cried the captai 

" Ay, ay !" the seamen said ; 
" Heave up the worthless lubbers,— 

The dying and the dead." 
Up from' the slave-ship's prison 

Fierce, bearded heads were thrust 
" Now let the sharks look to it, — 

Toss up the dead ones first !" 

Corpse after corpse came up, — 

Death had been busy there ; 
Where every blow is mercy, 

Why should the spoiler spare ? 
Corpse after corpse they cast 

Sullenly from the ship, 
Yet bloody with the traces 

Of fetter-link and whip. 



lio Voices of Freedom. 

Gloomily stood the captain, 

With his arms upon his breast, 
With his cold brow sternly knotted. 

And his iron lip compressed. 
" Are all the dead dogs over ?" 

Growled through that matted lip,— 
" The blind ones are no bettei-, 

Let's lighten the good ship." 

Hark ! from the ship's dark bosom. 

The very sounds of hell ! 
The ringing clank of iron, — 

The maniac's short, sharp yell ! — 
The hoarse, low curse, throat-stifled, 

The starving infant's moan, — 
The horror of a breaking heart 

Poured through a mother's groan. 

• 

Up from that loathsome prison 

The stricken blind ones came : 
Below, had all been darkness, — 

Above, was still the same. 
Yet the holy breath of heaven 

Was sweetly breathing there. 
And the heated brow of fever 

Cooled in the soft sea air. 

" Overboard with them, shipmates !" 

Cutlass and dirk were plied ; 
Fettered and blind, one after one. 

Plunged down the vessel's side. 
The sabre smote above, — 

Beneath, the lean shark lay. 
Waiting with wide and bloody jaw 

His quick and human prey. 

God of the earth ! what cries 

Rang upward unto thee } 
Voices of agony and blood, 

From ship-deck and from sea. 
The last dull plunge was heard, — 

The last wave caught its stain, — 
And the unsated shark looked up 

For human hearts in vain. 

Red glowed the western waters, — 
The setting sun was there, 



The Slave-Ships. 



Ill 



Scattering 

alike on 

\va\e and 

cloud 
His fiery 

mesri of 

hair. 
Amidst a 

group in 

blind- 

ness, 
A solitaiy 

eye 
Gazed, from 

the bur- 
dened slaver's deck. 
Into that burning sky. 

" A storm," spoke out 
the gazer, 

" Is gathering and at hand, — 
Curse on 't — I'd give my other eye 

For one firm rood of land." 
And then he laughed, — but only 

His echoed laugh replied, — 
For the blinded and the suffering 

Alone were at his side. 




'■\ "^-^ 



Night settled on the waters, 

And on a stormy heaven, 
While fiercely on that lone ship's 
track 

The thunder-gust was driven. 
" A sail ! — thank God, a sail !" 
And as the helmsman spoke, 
Up through the stormy murmur 
A shout of gladness broke. 



Night settled on the waters, 

AND ON A stormy HEAVEN. 



Down came the stranger vessel, 

Unheeding on her way, 
So near that on the slaver's deck 

Fell off her driven spray. 
" Ho ! for the love of mercy, — 

We're perishing and blind !" 
A wail of utter agony 

Came back upon the wind • 



Voices of Freedom. 



" Help i(s ! for we are stricken 

With blindness every one ; 
Ten days we've floated fearfully, 

Unnoting star or sun. 
Our ship 's the slaver Leon, — 

We've but a score on board, — 
Our slaves are all gone over, — 

Help ! — for the love of God !" 

On livid brows of agony 

The broad red lightning shone,- 
But the roar of wind and thunder 

Stifled the answering groan ; 
Wailed from the broken waters 

A last despairing cry, 
As, kindling in the stormy light, 

The stranger ship went by. 



In the sunny Guadaloupe 

A dark-hulled vessel lay, — 
With a crew who noted never 

The nightfall or the day. 
The blossom of the orange 

Was white by every stream, 
And tropic leaf, and flower, and bird 

Were in the warm sunbeam. 

And the sky was bright as ever, 

And the moonlight slept as well, 
On the palm-trees by the hillside, 

And the streamlet of the dell : 
And the glances of the Creole 

Were still as archly deep. 
And her smiles as full as ever 

Of passion and of sleep. 

But vain were bird and blossom. 

The green earth and the sky. 
And the smile of human faces, 

To the slaver's darkened eye ; 
At the breaking of the morning, 

At the star-lit evening time, 
O'er a world of light and beauty 

Fell the blackness of his crime. 



S/a/izas. 113 




la> 



STANZAS. 

[" The despotism which our fathers could not bear in their native country is ex- 
piring, and the sword of justice in her reformed hands has applied its exterminat- 
ing edge to slavery. Shall the United States — the free United States, which could 
not bear the bonds of a king — cradle the bondage which a king is abolishing ? Shall 
a Republic be less free than a Monarchy ? Shall we, in the vigor and buoyancy of 
our manhood, be less energetic in righteousness than a kingdom in its age ?'" — Dr. 
Pollen's A ddress. 

" Genius of America ! —Spirit of our free institutions ! — where art thou ? — How 
art thou fallen, O Lucifer ! son of the morning.— how art thou fallen from Heav- 
en ! Hell from beneath is moved for thee, to meet thee at thy coming ! — The 
kings of the earth cry out to thee, Aha ! Aha ! — art thou become like unto us ?" 
— Speech 0/ Satnnel J . Maj/.'\ 

Our feilo\v-countr\'men in chains ! 

Slaves — in a land of light and law ! 
Slaves — crouching on the very plains 

Where rolled the storm of Freedom's war! 
A groan from Eutaw's haunted wood, — 

A wail where Camden's martyrs fell, — 
By every shrine of patriot blood, 

From Moultrie's wall and Jasper's well ! 

By storied hill and hallowed grot, 

By mossy wood and marshy glen. 
Whence rang of old the rifle-shot. 

And hurraing shout of Marion's men ! 
The groan of breaking hearts is there, — 

The falling lash, — the fetter's clank ! 
Slaves. — SLAVES are breathing in that air 

Which old DeKalb and Sumter drank ! 



114 Voices of Freedom. 



What, ho ! — otir countrymen in chains ! 

The whip on woman's shrinking flesh ! 
Our soil yet reddening with the stains 

Caught from her scourging, warm and fresh ! 
What ! mothers from their children riv^en ! 

What ! God's own image bought and sold ! 
Americans to market driven. 

And bartered as the brute for gold ! 



Speak ! shall their agony of prayer 

Come thrilling to our hearts in vain ? 
To us whose fathers scorned to bear 

The paltry menace o{ a chain ; 
To us, whose boast is loud and long 

Of holy Liberty and Light, — 
Say, shall these writhing slaves of Wrong 

Plead vainly for their plundered Right ? 

What ! shall we send, with lavish breath, 

Our sympathies across the wave, 
Where Manhood, on the field of death. 

Strikes for his freedom or a grave ? 
Shall prayers go up, and hymns be sung 

For Greece, the Moslem fetter spurning, 
And millions hail with pen and tongue 

Our light on all her altars burning ? 



Shall Belgium feel, and gallant France, 

By Vendome's pile and Schoenbrun's wall, 
And Poland, gasping on her lance. 

The impulse of our cheering call ? 
And shall the SLAVE, beneath our eye. 

Clank o'er our fields his hateful chain ? 
And toss his fettered arms on high. 

And groan for Freedom's gift, in vain ? 



O, say, shall Prussia's banner be 

A refuge for the stricken slave ? 
And shall the Russian serf go free 

By Baikal's lake and Neva's wave ? 
And shall the wintry-bosomed Dane 

Relax the iron hand of pride. 
And bid his bondmen cast the chain. 

From fettered soul and limb, aside? 



Stanzas. 115 



Shall every flap of England's flag 

Proclaim that all around are free, 
From " farthest Ind" to each blue crag 

That beetles o'er the Western Sea ? 
And shall we scoff at Europe's kings, 

When Freedom's fire is dim with us, 
And round our country's altar clings 

The damning shade of Slavery's curse ? 



Go— let us ask of Constantine 

To loose his grasp on Poland's throat ; 
And beg the lord of Mahmoud's line 

To spare the struggling Suliote, — 
Will not the scorching answer come 

From turbaned Turk, and scornful Russ : 
" Go, loose your fettered slaves at home, 

Then turn, and ask the like of us !" 



Just God ! and shall we calmly rest. 

The Christian's scorn, — the heathen's mirth. 
Content to live the lingering jest 

And by-word of a mocking Earth ? 
Shall our own glorious land retain 

That curse which Europe scorns to bear? 
Shall our own brethren drag the chain 

Which not even Russia's menials wear ? 



Up, then, in Freedom's manly part. 

From graybeard eld to fiery youth. 
And on the nation's naked heart 

Scatter the living coals of Truth ! 
Up, — while ye slumber, deeper yet 

The shadow of our fame is growing 
Up, — while ye pause, our sun may set 

In blood, around our altars flowing ! 



Oh ! rouse ye, ere the storm comes forth, — 

The gathered wrath of God and man, — 
Like that which wasted Egypt's earth. 

When hail and fire above it ran. 
Hear ye no warnings in the air? 

Feel ye no earthquake underneath? 
Up, — up ! why will ye slumber where 

The sleeper only wakes in death ? 



ii6 Voices of Freedom. 



Up Jiow for Freedom ! — not in strife 

Like that your sterner fathers saw, — 
The awful waste of human hfe, — 

The glory and the guilt of war : 
But break the chain, — the yoke remove, 

And smite to earth Oppression's rod. 
With those mild arms of Truth and Love, 

Made mighty through the living God ! 

Down let the shrine of Moloch sink. 

And leave no traces where it stood ; 
Nor longer let its idol drink 

His daily cup of human blood ; 
But rear another altar there, 

To Truth and Love and Mercy given. 
And Freedom's gift, and Freedom's prayer. 

Shall call an answer down from Heaven ! 



THE YANKEE GIRL. 

She sings by her wheel at that low cottage-door. 
Which the long evening shadow is stretching before, 
With a music as sweet as the music which seems 
Breathed softly and faint in the ear of our dreams! 

How brilliant and mirthful the light of her eye, 
Like a star glancing out from the blue of the sky ! 
And lightly and freely her dark tresses play 
O'er a brow and a bosom as lovely as they ! 

Who comes in his ]:)ride to that low cottage-door, — 
The haughty and rich to the humble and poor ? 
'T is the great Southern planter, — the master who waves 
His whip of dominion o'er hundreds of slaves. 

" Nay, Ellen, — for shame ! Let those Yankee fools spin. 
Who would pass for our slaves with a change of their skin 
Let them toil as they will at the loom or the wheel, 
Too stupid for shame, and too vulgar to feel ! 

" But thou art too lovely and precious a gem 
To be bound to their burdens and sullied by them, — 
For shame, Ellen, shame, — cast thy bondage aside. 
And away '.o the South, as my blessing and pride. 



'^^S'^-.,* 




She sings by her wheel at that low cottage-dook. 



ii8 Voices of Freedom. 

" O, come where no winter thy footsteps can wrong, 
But where flowers are blossoming all the year long, 
Where the shade of the palm-tree is over my home, 
And the lemon and orange are white in their bloom ! 

" O, come to my home, where my servants shall all 
Depart at thy bidding and come at thy call ; 
They shall heed thee as mistress with trembling and awe. 
And each wish of thy heart shall be felt as a law." 

O, could ye have seen her — that pride of our girls — 
Arise and cast back the dark wealth of her curls. 
With a scorn in her eye which the gazer could feel, 
And a glance like the sunshine that flashes on steel ! 

" Go back, haughty Southron ! thy treasures of gold 
Are dim with the blood of the hearts thou hast sold ; 
Thy home may be lovely, but round it I hear 
The crack of the whip and the footsteps of fear ! 

" And the sky of thy South may be brighter than ours, 
And greener thy landscapes, and fairer thy flowers ; 
But dearer the blast round our mountains which raves. 
Than the sweet summer zephyr which breathes over slaves 

" Full low at thy bidding thy negroes may kneel, 
With the iron of bondage on spirit and heel ; 
Yet know that the Yankee girl sooner would be 
In fetters with them, than in freedom with thee !" 



TO W. L. GARRISON. 

Champion of those who groan beneath 

Oppression's iron hand : 
In view of penury, hate, and death, 

I see thee fearless stand. 
Still bearing up thy lofty brow, 

In the steadfast strength of truth, 
In manhood sealing well the vow 

And promise of thy youth. 

Go on, — for thou hast chosen well ; 

On in the strength of God ! 
Long as one human heart shall swell 

Beneath the tyrant's rod. 



Song of the Free. 119 

Speak in a slumbering- nation's ear. 

As thou hast ever spoken, 
Until the dead in sin shall hear,— 

The fetter's link be broken ! 

I love thee with a brother's love, 

I feel my pulses thrill. 
To mark thy spirit soar above 

The cloud of human ill. 
My heart hath leaped to answer thine, 

And echo back thy words, 
As leaps the warrior's at the shine 

And flash of kindred swords ! 

They tell me thou art rash and vain, — 

A searcher after fame ; 
That thou art striving but to gain 

A long-enduring name ; 
That thou hast nerved the Afric's hand 

And steeled the Afric's heart, 
To shake aloft his vengeful brand. 

And rend his chain apart. 

Have I not known thee well, and read 

Thy mighty purpose long? 
And watched the trials which have made 

Thy human spirit strong? 
And shall the slanderer's demon breath 

Avail with one like me, 
To dim the sunshine of my faith 

And earnest trust in thee ? 

Go on, — the dagger's point may glare 

Amid thy pathway's gloom, — 
The fate which sternly threatens there 

Is glorious martyrdom ! 
Then onward with a martyr's zeal ; 

Press on to thy reward, 
The hour when man shall only kneel 

Before his father — God. 
1833. 

SONG OF THE FREE. 

Pride of New England ! 

Soul of our fathers ! 
Shrink we all craven-like, 

When the storm gathers ? 



T20 Voices of Freedom. 



What though the tempest be 

Over us lowering-, 
Where 's the New-Englander 

Shamefully cowering ? 
Graves green and holy 

Around us are lying, — 
Free were the sleepers all, 

Living and dying ! 

Back with the Southerner's 

Padlocks and scourges ! 
Go, — let him fetter down 

Ocean's free surges ! 
Go, — let him silence 

Winds, clouds, and waters,- 
Never New England's own 

Free sons and daughters ! 
Free as our rivers are 

Ocean-ward going, — 
Free as the breezes are 

Over us blowing. 

Up to our altars, then. 

Haste we, and summon 
Courage and loveliness. 

Manhood and woman ! 
Deep let our pledges be : 

Freedom forever ! 
Truce with oppression. 

Never, O, never ! 
By our own birthright-gift, 

Granted of Heaven, — 
Freedom for heart and lip. 

Be the pledge given ! 

If we have whispered truth, 

Whisper no longer ; 
Speak as the tempest does. 

Sterner and stronger ; 
Still be the tones of truth 

Louder and firmer, 
Startling the haughty South 

With the deep murmur; 
God and our charter's right, 

Freedom forever ! 
Truce with oppression, 

Never, O, never ! 
1836. 



The Hunters of Men. 



121 



THE HUNTERS OF MEN. 

Have ye heard of our hunting, o'er mountain and glen, 
Through cane-brake and forest, — the hunting of men? 
The lords of our land to this hunting have gone, 
As the fox-hunter follows the sound of the horn ; 
Hark ! — the cheer and the hallo ! — the crack of the whip, 
And the yell of the hound as he fastens his grip ! 




vx 



/i,r 



Have ye heard of our hunting, o'er mountain and glen. 
Through cane-brake and forest, — the hunting of men? 



All blithe are our hunters, and noble their match, — 
Though hundreds are caught, there are millions to catch. 
So speed to their hunting, o'er mountain and glen, 
Through cane-brake and forest, — the hunting of men ! 



Gay luck to our hunters ! — how nobly they ride 

In the glow of their zeal, and the strength of their pride !- 



Voices of Freedom. 



The priest with his cassock flung back on the wind, 
Just screening the poHtic statesman behind, — 
The saint and the sinner, with cursing and prayer, 
The drunk and the sober, ride merrily there. 
And woman, — kind woman,— wife, widow, and maid, 
For the good of the hunted, is lending her aid : 
Her foot 's in the stirrup, her hand on the rein. 
How blithely she rides to the hunting of men ! 

O, goodly and grand is our hunting to see. 

In this " land of the brave and this home of the free." 

Priest, warrior, and statesman, from Georgia to Maine, 

All mounting the saddle, — all grasping the rein, — 

Right merrily hunting the black jnan, whose sin 

Is the curl of his hair and the hue of his skin ! 

Woe, now, to the hunted who turns him at bay ! 

Will our hunters be turned from their purpose and prey.^ 

Will their hearts fail within them ?— their nerves tremble 

when 
All roughly they ride to the hunting of men } 



Ho ! — ALMS for our hunters ! all weary and faint. 

Wax the curse of the sinner and prayer of the saint. 

The horn is wound faintly, — the echoes are still. 

Over cane-brake and river, and forest and hill. 

Haste, — alms for our hunters ! the hunted once more 

Have turned from their flight with their backs to the shore 

What right have they here in the home of the white. 

Shadowed o'er by our banner of Freedom and Right } 

Ho ! — alms for the hunters ! or never again 

Will they ride in their pomp to the hunting of men ! 



Alms, — alms for our hunters ! why will y^ delay. 
When their pride and their glory are melting away ? 
The parson has turned ; for, on charge of his own, 
Who goeth a warfare, or hunting, alone ? 
The politic statesman looks back with a sigh, — 
There is doubt in his heart, — there is fear in his eye. 
O, haste, lest that doubting and fear shall prevail, 
And the head of his steed take the place of the tail. 
O, haste, ere he leave us ! for who will ride then, 
For pleasure or gain, to the hunting of men ? 
1835- 



Clerical Oppressors. 123 



CLERICAL OPPRESSORS. 

[In the report of the celebrated pro-slasorj- meeting in Charleston, S. C, on 
the 4th of the 9th month, 1835, published in the Courier of that city, it is stated, 
""^ The CLERGY oj" all denominations attcndtd in a (^^o^/j, lending theik 
SANCTION TO THE PROCEEDINGS, and adding by their presence to the impressive 
character of the scene !"] 

Just God ! — and these are they 
Who minister at thine altar, God of Right ! 
Men who their hands with prayer and blessing lay 

On Israel's Ark of light ! 

What ! preach and kidnap men ? 
Give thanks, — and rob thy own afflicted poor? 
Talk of thy glorious liberty, and then 

Bolt hard the captive's door ? 

What ! servants of thy own 
Merciful Son, who came to seek and save 
The homeless and the outcast, — fettering down 

The tasked and plundered slave ! 

Pilate and Herod, friends ! 
Chief priests and rulers, as of old, combine ! 
Just God and holy ! is that church, which lends 

Strength to the spoiler, thine ? 

Paid hypocrites, who turn 
Judgment aside, and rob the Holy Book 
Of those high words of truth which search and burn 

In warning and rebuke ; 

Feed fat, ye locusts, feed ! 
And, in your tasselled pulpits, thank the Lord 
That, from the toiling bondman's utter need. 

Ye pile your own full board. 

How long, O Lord ! how long 
Shall such a priesthood barter truth away, 
And in thy name, for robbery and wrong 

At thy own altars pray .'* 

Is not thy hand stretched forth 
Visibly in the heavens, to awe and smite ? 
Shall not the living Ciod of all the earth. 

And heaven above, do right } 



124 



Voices of JFreedom. 



Woe, then, to all who grind 
Their brethren of a common Father down ! 
To all who plunder from the immortal mind 

Its bright and glorious crown ! 

Woe to the priesthood ! woe 
To those whose hire is with the price of blood, 
Perverting, darkening, changing, as they go, 

The searching truths of God ! 



Their glory and their might 
Shall perish ; and their very names shall be ' 
Vile before all the people, in the light 

Of a world's liberty. 

O, speed the moment on 
When Wrong shall cease, and Liberty and Love 
And Truth and Right throughout the earth be known 

As in their home above. 




[In a late publication of L. F. Tasistro — " Random Shots and Southern Breezes' 
— is a description of a slave auction at New Orleans, at which the auctioneer 
recommended the woman on the stand as " A good Christian !"] 



A Christian ! going, gone ! 
Who bids for God's own image? — for his grace 
Which that poor victim of the market-place 

Hath in her suffering won ? 



The Christian Slave. 125 

My God ! can such things be ? 
Hast thou not said that whatsoe'er is done 
Unto thy weakest and thy humblest one 

Is even done to thee ? 

In that sad victim, then, 
Child of thy pitying love, I see thee stand, — 
Once more the jest-word of a mocking band, 

Bound, sold, and scourged again ! 

A Christian up for sale ! 
Wet with her blood your whips, o'ertask her frame. 
Make her life loathsome with your wrong and shame. 

Her patience shall not fail ! 

A heathen hand might deal 
Back on your heads the gathered wrong of years : 
But her low, broken prayer and nightly tears, 

Ye neither heed nor feel. 

Con well thy lesson o'er, 
Thou prudent teacher, — tell the toiling slave 
No dangerous tale of Him who came to save 

The outcast and the poor. 

But wisely shut the ray 
Of God's free Gospel from her simple heart, 
And to her darkened mind alone impart 

One stern command, — Obey ! 

So shalt thou deftly raise 
The market-price of human flesh ; and while 
On thee, their pampered guest, the planters smile, 

Thy church shall praise. 

Grave, reverend men shall tell 
From Northern pulpits how thy work was blest. 
While in that vile South Sodom first and best, 

Thy poor disciples sell. 

O, shame ! the Moslem thrall. 
Who, with his master, to the Prophet kneels, 
While turning to the sacred Kebla feels 

His fetters break and fall. 



126 



Voices of Freedo??i. 



Cheers for the turbaned Bey 
Of robber-peopled Tunis ! he hath torn 
The dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne 

Their inmates into day : 

But our poor slave in vain 
Turns to the Christian shrine his aching eyes, — 
Its rites will only swell his market price, 

And rivet on his chain. 






f# 




#x 



^- 



1^ 






He hath torn the dark slave-dungeons open, and hath borne their 

INMATES into DAY. 

God of all right ! how long 
Shall priestly robbers at thine altar stand, 
Lifting in prayer to thee, the bloody hand 

And haughty brow of wrong ? 

O, from the fields of cane, 
From the low rice-swamp, from the trader's cell, — 
From the black slave-ship's foul and loathsome hell, 

And coffle's weary chain, — 



Stanzas for the Times. 12; 

Hoarse, horrible, and strong-, 
Rises to Heaven that agonizing- cry. 
Fining the arches of the hollow sky, 

How LONG, O God, how long? 



STANZAS FOR THE TIMES. 

Is this the land our fathers loved. 

The freedom which they toiled to win ? 

Is this the soil whereon they moved ? 
Are these the graves they slumber in ? 

Are we the sons by whom are borne 

The mantles which the dead have worn ? 

And shall we crouch above these graves. 
With craven soul and fettered lip ? 

Yoke in with marked and branded slaves. 
And tremble at the driver's whip ? 

Bend to the earth our pliant knees. 

And speak — but as our masters please ? 

Shall outraged Nature cease to feel ? 

Shall Mercy's tears no longer flow? 
Shall ruffian threats of cord and steel, — 

The dungeon's gloom, — the assassin's blow, 
Turn back the spirit roused to save 
The Truth, our Countr\', and the Slave ? 

Of human skulls that shrine was made, 
Round which the priests of Mexico 

Before their loathsome idol prayed ; — 
Is Freedom's altar fashioned so? 

And must we yield to Freedom's God, 

As offering meet, the negro's blood ? 

Shall tongues be mute, when deeds are wrought 
Which well might shame extremest hell ? 

Shall freemen lock the indignant thought ? 
Shall Pity's bosom cease to swell ? 

Shall Honor bleed ? — shall Truth succumb ? 

vShall pen, and press, and soul be dumb ? 

No ; — by each spot of haunted ground. 

Where Freedom weeps her children's fall, — 

By Plymouth's rock, and Bunker's mound, — 
By Griswold's stained and shattered wall, — 



128 Voices of Freedom. 



By Warren's ghost, — by Langdon's shade, - 
By all the memories of our dead ! 

By their enlarging souls, which burst 
The bands and fetters round them set, — 

By the free Pilgrim spirit nursed 
Within our inmost bosoms, yet, — 

By all above, around, below. 

Be ours the indisfnant answer, — NO ! 



No ; — guided by our country's laws. 

For truth, and right, and suffering man, 

Be ours to strive in Freedom's cause. 
As Christians may, — as freemen caul 

Still pouring on unwilling ears 

That truth oppression only fears. 

What ! shall we guard our neighbor still. 
While woman shrieks beneath his rod. 

And while he tramples down at will 
The image of a common God ! 

Shall watch and ward be round him set, 

Of Northern nerve and bayonet ? 

And shall we know and share with him 
The danger and the growing shame ? 

And see our Freedom's light grow dim, 

Which should have filled the world with tiame? 

And, writhing, feel, where'er we turn, 

A world's reproach around us burn ? 

Is 't not enough that this is borne ? 

And asks our haughty neighbor more ? 
Must fetters which his slaves have worn 

Clank round the Yankee farmer's door ? 
Must he be told, beside his plough, 
What he must speak, and when, and how ? 

Must he be told his freedom stands 

On Slavery's dark foundations strong, — 

On breaking hearts and fettered hands. 
On robbery, and crime, and wrong? 

That all his fathers taught is vain, — 

That Freedom's emblem is the chain ? 



Lines. 129 

Its life, its soul, from slavery drawn ? 

False, foul, profane ! Go, — teach as well 
Of holy Truth from Falsehood born ! 

Of Heaven refreshed by airs from Hell ! 
Of Virtue in the arms of Vice ! 
Of Demons planting Paradise ! 

Rail on, then, "brethren of the South," — 
Ye shall not hear the truth the less ; — 

No seal is on the Yankee's mouth, 
No fetter on the Yankee's press ! 

From our Green Mountains to the sea. 

One voice shall thunder, — We are free ! 

LINES, 

WRITTEN ON READING THE SPIRITED AND MANLY REMARKS 
OF GOVERNOR RITNER, OF PENNSYLVANIA, IN HIS MES- 
SAGE OF 1836, ON THE SUBJECT OF SLAVERY. 

Thank God for the token ! — one lip is still free, — 
One spirit untrammelled, — unbending one knee ! 
Like the oak of the mountain, deep-rooted and firm. 
Erect, when the multitude bends to the storm ; 
When traitors to Freedom, and Honor, and God, 
Are bowed at an Idol polluted with blood ; 
When the recreant North has forgotten her trust, 
And the lip of her honor is low in the dust, — 
Thank God, that one arm from the shackle has broken ! 
Thank God, that one man as d^freemaji has spoken ! 

O'er thy crags, Alleghany, a blast has been blown ! 
Down thy tide, Susquehanna, the murmur has gone ! 
To the land of the South, — of the charter and chain, -^ 
Of Liberty sweetened with Slavery's pain ; 
Where the cant of Democracy dwells on the lips 
Of the forgers of fetters, and wielders of whips I 
Where " chivalric " honor means really no more 
Than scourging of women, and robbing the poor ! 
Where the Moloch of Slavery sitteth on high. 
And the words which he utters, are — Worship, or die ! 

Right onward, O speed it ! Wherever the blood 
Of the wronged and the guiltless is crying to God ; 
Wherever a slave in his fetters is pining ; 
Wherever the lash of the driver is twining- ; 



I30 



Voice's of Freedom. 




Like the oak of the mountain, deep-rooted and firm. 

Wherever from kindred, torn rudely apart, 

Comes the sorrowful wail of the broken of heart ; 

Wherever the shackles of tyranny bind. 

In silence and darkness, the God-given mind ; 

There, God speed it onward ! — its truth will be felt, — 

The bonds shall be loosened, — the iron shall melt ! 

And O, will the land where the free soul of Penn 
Still lingers and breathes over mountain and glen,^ — 
Will the land where a Benezet's spirit went forth 
To the peeled and the meted, and outcast of Earth, — 
Where the words of the Charter of Liberty lirst 
From the soul of the sage and the patriot burst, — 
Where first for the wronged and the weak of their kind. 
The Christian and statesman their efforts combined, — 
Will that land of the free and the good wear a chain ? 
Will the call to the rescue of Freedom be vain ? 



No, RlTNER ! — her " Friends " at thy warning shall stand 
Erect for the truth, like their ancestral band ; 



Lilies. 131 

Forgetting the feuds and the strife of past time, 
Counting coldness injustice, and silence a crime ; 
Turning back from the cavil of creeds, to unite 
Once again for the poor in defence of the Right ; 
Breasting calmly, but firmly, the full tide of Wrong, 
Overwhelmed, but not borne on its surges along ; 
Unappalled by the danger, the shame, and the pain, 
And coimting each trial for Truth as their gain ! 

And that bold-hearted yeomanry, honest and true, 
Who, haters of fraud, give to labor its due ; 
Whose fathers, of old, sang in concert with thine. 
On the banks of Swetara, the songs of the Rhine, — 
The German-born pilgrims, who first dared to brave 
The scorn of the proud in the cause of the slave :— 
Will the sons of such men yield the lords of the South 
One brow for the brand, — for the padlock one mouth ? 
They cater to tyrants ? — They rivet the chain, 
Which their fathers smote off, on the negro again ? 

No, never ! — one voice, like the sound in the cloud, 
When the roar of the storm waxes loud and more loud, 
Wherever the foot of the freeman hath pressed 
From the Delaware's marge to the Lake of the West, 
On the South-going breezes shall deepen and grow 
Till the land it sweeps over shall tremble below ! 
The voice of a people, — uprisen, — awake, — 
Pennsylvania's watchword, with Freedom at stake. 
Thrilling up from each valley, flung down from each height, 
" Our Country And Liberty ! — God for the 
Right I" 

LINES. 
written on reading the famous " pastoral letter." 

So, this is all,— the utmost reach 

Of priestly power the mind to fetter ! 
When laymen think — when women preach — 

A war of words — a " Pastoral Letter !" 
Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes ! 

Was it thus with those, your predecessors. 
Who sealed with racks, and fire, and ropes 

Their loving-kindness to transgressors ? 

A " Pastoral Letter," grave and dull — 
Alas ! in hoof and horns and features, 

How different is your Brookfield bull, 

From him who bellows from St. Peter's ! 



132 Voices of F freedom. 



Your pastoral rights and powers from harm, 
Think ye, can words alone preserve them ? 

Your wiser fathers taught the arm 

And sword of temporal power to serve them. 

O, glorious days, — when Church and State 

Were wedded by your spiritual fathers ! 
And on submissive shoulders sat 

Your Wilsons and your Cotton Mathers. 
No vile " itinerant" then could mar 

The beauty of your tranquil Zion, 
But at his peril of the scar 

Of hangman's whip and branding-iron. 

Then, wholesome laws relieved the Church 

Of heretic and mischief-maker. 
And priest and bailiff joined in search. 

By turns, of Papist, witch, and Quaker ! 
The stocks were at each church's door. 

The gallows stood on Boston Common, 
A Papist's ears the pillory bore, — ■ 

The gallows-rope, a Quaker woman ! 

Your fathers dealt not as ye deal 

With " non-professing" frantic teachers; 
They bored the tongue with red-hot steel, 

And flayed the backs of " female preachers." 
Old Newbury, had her fields a tongue, 

And Salem's streets could tell their story, 
Of fainting woman dragged along. 

Gashed by the whip, accursed and gory ! 

And will ye ask me, why this taunt 

Of memories sacred from the scorner.? 
And why with reckless hand I plant 

A nettle on the graves ye honor ? 
Not to reproach New England's dead 

This record from the past I summon, 
Of manhood to the scaffold led, 

And suffering and heroic woman. 

No, — for yourselves alone, I turn 

The pages of intolerance over, 
That, in their spirit, dark and stern, 

Ye haply may your own discover ! 



Lines, 133 

For, if ye claim the " pastoral right," 
To silence Freedom's voice of warning. 

And from your precincts shut the light 
Of Freedom's day around ye dawning ; 

If when an earthquake voice of power, 

And signs in earth and heaven, are showmg 
That forth, in its appointed hour. 

The Spirit of the Lord is going ! 
And, with that Spirit, Freedom's light 

On kindred, tongue, and people breaking, 
Whose slumbering millions, at the sight, 

In glory and in strength are waking ! 

When for the sighing of the poor, 

And for the needy, God hath risen. 
And chains are breaking, and a door 

Is opening for the souls in prison ! 
If then ye would, with puny hands, 

Arrest the very work of Heaven, 
And bind anew the evil bands 

Which God's right arm of power hath riven,— 

What marvel that, in many a mind, 

Those darker deeds of bigot madness 
Are closely with your own combined. 

Yet " less in anger than in sadness" ? 
What marvel, if the people learn 

To claim the right of free opinion ? 
What marvel, if at times they spurn 

The ancient yoke of your dominion ? 

Oh, how contrast, v/ith such as ye, 

A Leavitt' s free and generous bearing ! 
A Perry s calm integrity, 

A Phelps' zeal and Christian daring! 
A Follens soul of sacrifice, 

And Mays with kindness oxertiowing ! 
How green and lovely in the eyes 

Of freemtiu are their graces growing ! 



Ay, there's a glorious remnant yet. 

Whose lips are wet at Freedom's fountains, 

The coming of whose welcome feet 
Is beautiful upon our mountains ! 



134 Voices of Freedom. 

Men, who the gospel tidings bring 

Of Liberty and Love forever, 
Whose joy is one abiding spring, 

Whose peace is as a gentle river ! 

But ye, who scorn the thrilling tale 

Of Carolina's high-souled daughters, 
Which echoes here the mournful wail 

Of sorrow from Edisto's waters. 
Close while ye may the public ear, — 

With malice vex, with slander wound them, — 
The pure and good shall throng to hear. 

And tried and manly hearts surround them. 

O, ever may the power which led 

Their way to such a fiery trial. 
And strengthened womanhood to tread 

The wine-press of such self-denial, 
Be round them in an evil land, 

With wisdom and with strength from Heaven, 
With Miriam's voice, and Judith's hand. 

And Deborah's song, for triumph given ! 

And what are ye who strive with God 

Against the ark of his salvation. 
Moved by the breath of prayer abroad, 

With blessings for a dying nation ? 
What, but the stubble and the hay 

To perish, even as flax consuming, 
With all that bars his glorious way, 

Before the brightness of his coming? 

And thou, sad Angel, who so long 

Hast waited for the glorious token. 
That Earth from all her bonds of wrong 

To liberty and light has broken, — 
Angel of Freedom ! -soon to thee 

The sounding trumpet shall be given, 
And over Earth's full jubilee 

Shall deeper joy be felt in Heaven ! 

LINES, 

WRITTEN FOR THE MEETING OF THE ANTISLAVERY SOCI- 
ETY, AT CHATHAM STREET CHAPEL, N. ¥., HELD ON THE 
4TH OF THE 7TH MONTH, 1 834. 

O Thou, whose presence went before 
Our fathers in their weary way, 



Lines. 



35 



As with thy chose ri moved of yore 
The fire by night, the cloud by day ! 

When from each temple of the free, 
A nation's song ascends to Heaven, 

Most Holy Father ! unto thee 

May not our humble prayer be given ^ 




s^^ 



And clustered vine, and blossomed grain, are bending round each 
cottage door. 



Thy children all,— though hue and form 
Are varied in thine own good will, — 

With thy own holy breathings warm. 
And fashioned in thine image still. 



We thank thee, Father !— hill and plain 
Around us wave their fruits once more, 

And clustered vine, and blossomed grain. 
Are bending round each cottage door. 



136 Voices of Freedom, 



And peace is here ; and hope and love 
Are round us as a mantle thrown, 

And unto Thee, supreme above, 
The knee of prayer is bowed alone. 

But O, for those this day can bring, 
As unto us, no joyful thrill, — 

For those who, under Freedom's wing, 
Are bound in Slavery's fetters still : 

For those to whom thy living word 
Of light and love is never given, — 

For those whose ears have never heard 
The promise and the hope of Heaven ! 

P^or broken heart, and clouded mind, 
Whereon no human mercies fall, — 

O, be thy gracious love inclined, 
Who, as a Father, pitiest all ! 

And grant, O Father ! that the. time 
Of Earth's deliverance may be near, 

When every land and tongue and clinle 
The message of thy love shall hear, — 

When, smitten as with fire from heaven, 
The captive's chain shall sink in dust, 

And to his fettered soul be given 
The glorious freedom of the just ! 



LINES, 

WRITTEN FOR THE CELEBRATION OF THE THIRD ANNI- 
VERSARY OF BRITISH EMANCIPATION AT THE BROADWAY 
TABERNACLE, N. Y., " FIRST OF AUGUST," 1837. 

O Holy Father ! — just and true 

Are all thy works and words and ways. 
And unto thee alone are due 

Thanksgiving and eternal praise ! 
As children of thy gracious care, 

We veil the eye, we bend the knee. 
With broken words of praise and prayer, 

Father and God, we come to thee. 



Lines. 13) 

For thou hast heard, O God of Right, 

The sighing of the island slave ; 
And stretched for him the arm of might, 

Not shortened that it could not save. 
The laborer si-ts beneath his vine, 

The shackled soul and hand are free, — 
Thanksgiving! — for the work is thine! 

Praise ! — for the blessing is of thee ! 

And O, we feel thy presence here, — 

Thy awful arm in judgment bare I 
Thine eye hath seen the. bondman's tear, — 

Thine ear hath heard the bondman's prayer. 
Praise ! — for the pride of man is low, 

The counsels of the wise are naught. 
The fountains of repentance flow ; 

What hath our God in mercy wrought ? 



Speed on thy work, Lord God of Hosts ! 

And when the bondman's chain is riven. 
And swells from all our guilty coasts 

The anthem of the free to Heaven, 
O, not to those whom thou hast led, 

As with thy cloud and fire before, 
But unto thee, in fear and dread. 

Be praise and glory evermore. 



LINES, 

WRITTEN FOR THE ANNIVERSARY CELEBRATION OF THE 
FIRST OF AUGUST, AT MILTON, 1846. 

A FEW brief years have passed away 

Since Britain drove her million slaves 
Beneath the tropic's fien^ ray : 
God willed their freedom ; and to-day 
Life blooms above those island graves ! 



He spoke ! across the Carib Sea, 

We heard the clash of breaking chains. 

And felt the heart-throb of the free, 

The first, strong pulse of liberty 

Which thrilled along the bondman's veins. 



y^S Voices of Freedom. 

Though long delayed, and far, and slow, 

The Briton's triumph shall be ours : 
Wears slavery here a prouder brow 
Than that which twelve short years ago 
Scowled darkly from her island bowers ? 

Mighty alike for good or ill 

With mother-land, we fully share 

The Saxon strength, — the nerve of steel, — 

The tireless energy of will, — 

The power to do, the pride to dare. 

What she has done can we not do ? 

Our hour and men are both at hand; 
The blast which Freedom's angel blew 
O'er her green islands, echoes through 

Each valley of our forest land. 

Hear it, old Europe ! we have sworn 

The death of slavery. — When it falls, 
Look to your vassals in their turn. 
Your poor dumb millions, crushed and worn, 
Your prisons and your palace walls ! 

O kingly mockers ! — scoffing show 

What deeds in Freedom's name we do ; 
Yet know that every taunt ye throw 
Across the u^aters, goads our slow 

Progression towards the right and true. 

Not always shall your outraged poor. 

Appalled by democratic crime, 
Grind as their fathers ground before, — 
The hour which sees our prison door 
Swing wide shall be their triumph time. 

On then, my brothers ! every blow 

Ye deal is felt the wide earth through ; 
Whatever here uplifts the low 
Or humbles Freedom's hateful foe, 

Blesses the Old World through the New. 

Take heart ! The promised hour draws near, 

I hear the downward beat of wings, 
And Freedom's trumpet sounding clear : 
" Joy to the people ! — woe and fear 

To new-world tyrants, old-world kings !" 



The Farewell, 139 



THE FAREWELL 

OF A VIRGINIA SLAVE MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTERS SOLD 
INTO SOUTHERN BONDAGE. 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 

To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 

Where the slave-whip ceaseless swings, 

Where the noisome insect stings, 

Where the fever demon strews 

Poison with the falling dews, 

Where the sickly sunbeams glare 

Through the hot and misty air, — 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
There no mother's eye is near them, 
There no mother's ear can hear them ; 
Never, when the torturing lash 
Seams their back with many a gash. 
Shall a mother's kindness bless them. 
Or a mother's arms caress them. 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
O, when weary, sad, and slow, 
From the fields at night they go, 
Faint with toil, and racked with pain, 
To their cheerless homes again. 
There no brother's voice shall greet them, — 
There no father's welcome meet them. 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 

To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 



140 



Voices of Freedom. 



From the tree whose shadow lay 
On their childhood's place of play, — 
From the cool spring where they drank, — 
Rock, and hill, and rivulet bank, — 
From the solemn house of prayer, 
And the holy counsels there, — 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
"Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 



Gone, gone, — sold 

and gone, 
To the rice-swamp 
dank and lone, — 
Toiling through the 

weary day, 
And at night the spoil- 
er's prey. 





Where the fever demon strews. 



O that they had earlier died, 

Sleeping calmly side by side. 

Where the tyrant's power is o'er, 

Vnd the fetter galls no more ! 
Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
From Virginia's hills and waters, — 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 



Gone, gone, — sold and gone. 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone. 
By the holy love He beareth, — 
By the bruised reed He spareth, — 
O, may He, to whom alone 
All their cruel wrongs are known, 
Still their hope and refuge prove, 
With a more than mother's love. 



The Moral Waj-fare. 141 

Gone, gone, — sold and gone, 
To the rice-swamp dank and lone, 
From Virginia's hills and waters,— 
Woe is me, my stolen daughters ! 



JT-;^- 




THE MORAT. WARFARE. 

W^HEN Freedom, on her natal day, 

Within her war-rocked cradle lay. 

An iron race around her stood, 

Baptized her infant brow in blood ; 

And, through the storm which round her swept, 

Their constant ward and watching kept. 

Then, where our quiet herds repose. 
The roar of baleful battle rose. 
And brethren of a common tongue 
To mortal strife as tigers sprung, 
And every gift on Freedom's shrine 
Was man for beast, and blood for wine t 

Our fathers to their graves have gone ; 
Their strife is past, — their triumph won ; 
But sterner trials wait the race 
Which rises in their honored place, — 



142 Voices of Freedom. 



A moral warfare with the crime 
And folly of an evil time. 

So let it be. In God's own might 

We gird us for the coming fight, 

And, strong in Him whose cause is ours 

In conflict with unholy powers, 

We grasp the weapons He has given, — 

The Light, and Truth, and Love of Heaven. 



THE WORLD'S CONVENTION 

OF THE FRIENDS OF EMANCIPATION, HELD IN LONDON IN 

I 840. 

Yes, let them gather ! — Summon forth 
The pledged philanthropy of Earth, 
From every land, whose hills have heard 

The bugle blast of Freedom waking ; 
Or shrieking of her symbol-bird 

From out his cloudy eyrie breaking : 
Where Justice hath one worshipper, 
Or Truth one altar built to her ; 
Where'er a human eye is weeping 

O'er wrongs which Earth's sad children know, — 
Where'er a single heart is keeping 

Its prayerful watch with human woe ; 
Thence let them come, and greet each other, 
And know in each a friend and brother ! 

Yes, let them come ! from each green vale 

Where England's old baronial halls 

Still bear upon their storied walls 
The grim crusader's rusted mail. 
Battered by Paynim spear and brand 
On Malta's rock or Syria's sand ! 
And mouldering pennon-staves once set 

Within the soil of Palestine, 
By Jordan and Genesaret ; 

Or, borne with England's battle line. 
O'er Acre's shattered turrets stooping, 
Or, midst the camp their banners drooping. 

With dews from hallowed Hermon wet, 
A holier summons now is given 

Than that gray hermit's voice of old, 
Which unto all the winds of heaven 

The banners of the Cross unrolled ! 



The WorhV s Convention . 



143 



Not for the long-deserted shrine, — 

Not for the dull unconscious sod, 
Which tells not by one lingering sign 

That there the hope of Israel trod ;— 
But for that TRUTH, for which alone 

In pilgrim eyes are sanctified 
The garden moss, the mountain stone, 
Whereon his holy sandals pressed, — 
The fountain which his lip hath blessed, — 
Whate'er hath touched his garment's hem 
At Bethany or Bethlehem, 

Or Jordan's river-side. 
For Freedom, in the name of Him 

Who came to raise Earth's drooping poor 
To break the chain from every limb. 

The bolt from every prison door ! 
For these, o'er all the earth hath passed 
An ever-deepening trumpet blast, 
As if an angel's breath had lent 
Its visror to the instrument. 




Thl 



BL OLE I L\ 

Fkeedum. 



And Whales, from Snowden's mountain wall. 
Shall startle at that thrilling call. 

As if she heard her bards again ; 
And Erin's " harp on Tara's wall" 

Give out its ancient strain, 
Mirthful and sweet, yet sad withal, — 

The melody which Erin loves, 
When o'er that harp, 'mid bursts of gladness 
And slogan cries and lyke-wake sadness. 

The hand of her O'Connell moves ! 
Scotland, from lake and tarn and rill. 
And mountain hold, and heathery hill, 

Shall catch and echo back the note, 
As if she heard upon her air 
Once more her Cameronian's prayer 

And song of Freedom float. 
And cheering echoes shall reply 
From each remote dependency, 
Where Britain's mighty sway is known, 
In tropic sea or frozen zone; 
Where'er her sunset flag is furling. 
Or morning gun-fire's smoke is curling , 
Yxoxvl Indian Bengal's groves of palm 
And rosy fields and gales of balm. 
Where Eastern pomp and power are'rolled 
Through regal Ava's gates of gold ; 



144 Voices of Freedom. 



And from the lakes and ancient woods 
And dim Canadian solitudes, 
Whence, sternly from her rocky throne, 
Queen of the North, Quebec looks down ; 
And from those bright and ransomed Isles 
Where all unwonted Freedom smiles, 
And the dark laborer still retains 
The scar of slavery's broken chains ! 

From the hoar Alps, which sentinel 

The gateways of the land of Tell, 

Where morning's keen and earliest glance 

On Jura's rocky wall is thrown. 
And from the olive bowers of France 

And vine groves garlanding the Rhone,- 
" Friends of the Blacks," as true and tritd 
As those who stood by Oge"s side, 
Brissot and eloquent Gregoire, 
When with free lip and heart of fire 
The Haytien told his country's wrong, 
Shall gather at that summons strong, — 
Broglie, Passy, and him whose song 
Breathed over Syria's holy sod, 
And in the paths which Jesus trod. 
And murmured midst the hills which hem 
Crownless and sad Jerusalem, 
Hath echoes whereso'er the tone 
Of Israel's prophet-lyre is known. 

Still let them come, — from Quito's walls, 

And from the Orinoco's tide. 
From Lima's Inca-haunted halls, 
From Santa Fe and Yucatan, — 

Men who by swart Guerrero's side 
Proclaimed the deathless rights of man. 

Broke every bond and fetter off. 

And hailed in every sable serf 
A free and brother Mexican ! 
Chiefs who across the Andes' chain 

Have followed Freedom's flowing pennoi 
And seen on Junin's fearful plain, 
Glare o'er the broken ranks of Spain 

The fire-burst of Bolivar's cannon ! 
And Hayti, from her mountain land, 

Shall send the sons of those who hurled 
Defiance from her blazing strand, — 
The war-gage from her Petion's hand, 

Alone against a hostile world, 



The World' s Coiwention. 



45 



Nor all unmindful, thou, the while, 
Land of the dark and mystic Nile ! — 

Thy Moslem mercy yet may shame 

All tyrants of a Christian name, — 
When in the shade of Gezeh's pile, 
Or, where from Abyssinian hills 
El Gerek's upper fountain fills. 
Or where from Mountains of the Moon 
El Abiad bears his watery boon, 
Where'er thy lotus blossoms swim 

Within their ancient hallowed waters,— 
Where'er is heard thy prophet's hymn, 

Or song of Nubia's sable daughters, — 
The curse of SLAVERY and the crime. 
Thy bequest from remotest time. 
At thy dark Mehemet's decree 
Forevermore shall pass from thee ; 

And chains forsake each captive's limb 
Of all those tribes, whose hills around 
Have echoed back the cymbal sound 

And victor horn of Ibrahim, 



And thou whose glory and whose crime 
To earth's remotest bound and clime. 
In mingled tones of awe and scorn. 
The echoes of a world have borne. 
My country ! glorious at thy birth, 
A day-star flashing brightly forth, — 

The herald-sign of Freedom's dawn ! 
O, who could dream that saw thee then. 

And watched thy rising from afar. 
That vapors from oppression's fen 

Would cloud the upward tending star? 

Or, that earth's tyrant powers, which heard. 

Awe-struck, the shout which hailed thy dawnin 
Would rise so soon, prince, peer, and king. 
To mock thee with their w^elcoming. 
Like Hades when her thrones were stirred 

To greet the down-cast Star of Morning ! 
" Aha ! and art thou fallen thus ? 
Art THOU become as one of us f 




Where'er thy lotus blos- 
sonis SWIM. 



Land of my fathers ! — there will stand, 
Amidst that world-assembled band, 
Those owning thy maternal claim 
Unweakened by thy crime and shame,- 



146 Voices of Freedom. 

The sad reprovers of thy wrong, — 
The children thou hast spurned so long. 
Still with affection's fondest yearning 
To their unnatural mother turning. 
No traitors they ! — but tried and leal, 
Whose own is but thy general weal, 
Still blending with the patriot's zeal 
The Christian's love for human kind, 
To caste and climate unconfined. 

A holy gathering ! — peaceful all : 
No threat of war, — no savage call 

For vengeance on an erring brother ! 
But in their stead the godlike plan 
To teach the brotherhood of man 

To love and reverence one another. 
As sharers of a common blood, 
The children of a common God ! — 
Yet, even at its lightest word, 
Shall Slavery's darkest depths be stirred: 
Spain, watching from her Moro's keep 
Her slave-ships traversing the deep, 
And Rio, in her strength and pride. 
Lifting, along her mountain-side. 
Her snowy battlements and towers, — 
Her lemon-groves and tropic bowers. 
With bitter hate and sullen fear 
Its freedom-giving voice shall hear ; 
And where my country's flag is flowing. 
On breezes from Mount Vernon blowing 

Above the Nation's council halls, 
Where Freedom's praise is loud and long, 

While close beneath the outward walls 
The driver plies his reeking thong, — 

The hammer of the man-thief falls. 
O'er hypocritic cheek and brow 
The crimson flush of shame shall glow : 
And all who for their native land 
Are pledging life and heart and hand, — 
Worn watchers o'er her changing weal, 
Who for her tarnished honor feel, — • 
Through cottage door and council-hall 
Shall thunder an awakening call. 
The pen along its page shall burn 
With all intolerable scorn, — 
An eloquent rebuke shall go 
On all the winds that Southward blow, — 



Neiv Hampshire. 147 



From priestly lips, now sealed and dumb, 
Warning and dread appeal shall come, 
Like those which Israel heard from him, 
The Prophet of the Cherubim, — 
Or those which sad Esaias hurled 
Against a sin-accursed world ! 
Its wizard leaves the Press shall fling 
Unceasing from its iron wing, 
With characters inscribed thereon. 

As fearful in the despot's hall 
As to the pomp of Babylon 

The fire-sign on the palace wall ! 
And, from her dark iniquities, 
Methinks I see my country rise : 
Not challenging the nations round 

To note her tardy justice done,— 
Her captives from their chains unbound, 

Her prisons opening to the sun : — 
But tearfully her arms extending 
Over the poor and unoffending ; 

Her regal emblem now no longer 
A bird of prey, with talons reeking, 
Above the dying captive shrieking. 
But, spreading out her ample wing, — 
A broad, impartial covering, — 

The weaker sheltered by the stronger I- 
O, then to Faith's anointed eyes 

The promised token shall be given ; 
And on a nation's sacrifice, 
Atoning for the sin of years. 
And wet with penitential tears, — 

The fire shall fall from Heaven ! 
1839. 

NEW HAMPSHIRE. 

1845- 
God bless New Hampshire ! — from her granite peaks 
Once more the voice of Stark and Langdon speaks. 
The long-bound vassal of the exulting South 

For very shame her self-forged chain has broken,— 
Torn the black seal of slavery from her mouth. 

And in the clear tones of her old time spoken ! 
O, all undreamed-of, all unhoped-for changes ! — 

The tyrant's ally proves his sternest foe ; 
To all his biddings, from her mountain ranges, 

New Hampshire thunders an indignant No ! 



14^ Voices of Freedom. 

Who is it now despairs ? O, faint of heart, 

Look upward to those Northern mountains cold, 
Flouted by Freedom's victor-flag unrolled, 

And gather strength to bear a manlier part ! 

All is not lost. The angel of God's blessing 
Encamps with Freedom on the field of fight ; 

Still to her banner, day by day, are pressmg, 
Unlooked-for allies, striking for the right ! 

Courage, then. Northern hearts ! — Be firm, be true : 

What one brave State hath done, can ye not also do ? 



THE NEW YEAR : 

ADDRESSED TO THE PATRONS OF THE PENNSYLVANIA 
FREEMAN. 

The wave is breaking on the shore, — 
The echo fading from the chime, — 

Again the shadow moveth o'er 
The dial-plate of time ! 

O, seer-seen Angel ! waiting now 
With weary feet on sea and shore, 

Impatient for the last dread vow 
That time shall be no more ! 

Once more across thy sleepless eye 
The semblance of a smile has passed : 

The year departing leaves more nigh 
Time's fearfullest and last. 

O, in that dying year hath been 

The sum of all since time began, — 

The birth and death, the joy and pain, 
Of Nature and of Man. 

Spring, with her change of sun and shower. 
And streams released from Winter's chain, 

And bursting bud, and opening flower, 
And greenly growing grain ; 

And Summer's shade, and sunshine warm, , 
And rainbows o'er her hill-tops bowed, 

And voices in her rising storm,— 
God speaking from his cloud !t— , 




Spring, with her changb oe sun and showek. 



150 Voices of Fi^eedom. 

And Autumn's fruits and clustering sheaves, 
And soft, warm days of golden light. 

The glory of her forest leaves, 
And harvest-moon at night ; 

And Winter wdth her leafless grove, 

And prisoned stream, and drifting snow. 

The brilliance of her heaven above 
And of her earth below :— 



v,,;'.^ * -# 




\: •. -. 



^"- ^^ 



His childhood's merriest laughter 

RUNG. 



And man, — in whom an angel's mind 
With earth's low instincts finds abode, — 

The highest of the links which bind 
Brute nature to her God ; 

His infant eye hath seen the light, 

His childhood's merriest laughter rung, 

And active sports to manlier might 
The nerves of boyhood strung ! 

And quiet love, and passion's fires, 

Have soothed or burned in manhood's breast. 
And lofty aims and low desires 

By turns disturbed his rest. 



The Ne7u Year, 151 



The wailing of the newly-born 

Has mingled with the funeral knell ; 

And o'er the dying's ear has gone 
The merr}' marriage-bell. 

And Wealth has filled his halls with mirth, 
While Want, in man}' a humble shed, 

Toiled, shivering by her cheerless hearth, 
The live-long night for bread. 

And worse than all, — the human slave, — 
The sport of lust, and pride, and scorn ! 

Plucked off the crown his Maker gave, — 
His regal manhood gone ! 

O, still, my country ! o'er thy plains, 

Blackened with slavery's blight and ban. 

That human chattel drags his chains, — 
An uncreated man I 



And still, where'er to sun and breeze, 
My country, is thy flag unrolled, 

With scorn, the gazing stranger sees 
A stain on every fold. 

O, tear the gorgeous emblem down ! 

It gathers scorn from ever}- eye, 
And despots smile and good men frown 

Whene'er it passes by. 

Shame ! shame ! its starr)* splendors glow 
Above the slaver's loathsome jail, — 

Its folds are ruffling even now 
His crimson flag of sale. 

Still round our country's proudest hall 
The trade in human flesh is driven, 

And at each careless hammer-fall 
A human heart is riven. 

And this, too, sanctioned by the men 
Vested with power to shield the right, 

And throw each vile and robber den 
Wide open to the light. 



152 Voices of Freedom. 



Yet, shame upon them ! — there they sit, 
Men of the North, subdued and still ; 

Meek, pliant poltroons, only fit 
To work a master's will. 

Sold, — bargained off for Southern votes, — 
A passive herd of Northern mules. 

Just braying through their purchased throats 
Whate'er their owner rules. 



And he,^* — the basest of the base, 
The vilest of the vile, — whose name, 

Embalmed in infinite disgrace, 
Is deathless in its shame ! — 



A tool, — to bolt the people's door 
Against the people clamoring there, 

An ass, — to trample on their floor 
A people's right of prayer ! 

Nailed to his self-made gibbet fast, 
Self-pilloried to the public view, — 

A mark for every passing blast 
Of scorn to whistle through ; 

There let him hang, and hear the boast 
Of Southrons o'er their pliant tool, — 

A St. Stylites on his post, 
" Sacred to ridicule !" 



Look we at home ! — our noble hall, 
To Freedom's holy purpose given. 

Now rears its black and ruined wall, 
Beneath the wintiy heaven, — 

Telling the story of its doom, — 

The fiendish mob, — the prostrate law, — 
The fiery jet through midnight's gloom, 

Our gazing thousands saw. 

Look to our State, — the poor man's right 
Torn from him : — and the sons of those 

Whose blood in Freedom's sternest fight 
Sprinkled the Jersey snows, 



The New Year. it- 



Outlawed within the land of Penn, 

That Slavery's guilty fears might cease, 

And those whom God created men 
Toil on as brutes in peace. 

Yet o'er the blackness of the storm 
A bow of promise bends on high, 

And gleams of sunshine, soft and warm 
Break through our clouded sky. 

East West, and North, the shout is heard, 
Of freemen rising for the right : 

Each valley hath its rallying word — 
Each hill its signal light. 

O'er Massachusetts' rocks of gray, 

The strengthening light of freedom shines, 

Khode Island's Narragansett Bay,— 
And Vermont's snow-hung pines ! 

From Hudson's frowning palisades 

To Alleghany's laurelled crest, 
O er lakes and prairies, streams and glades 

It shmes upon the West. 

Speed on the light to those who dwell 
In Slavery's land of woe and sin. 

And through the blackness of that' hell, 
Let Heaven's own light break in. 

So shall the Southern conscience quake 
Before that light poured full and strong, 

So shall the Southern heart awake 
To all the bondman's wrong. 

And from that rich and sunny land 
The song of grateful millions rise, 

Like that of Israel's ransomed band 
Beneath Arabia's skies : 

And all who now are bound beneath 
Our banner's shade, our eagle's wing, 

P rom Slavery's night of moral death 
To light and life shall spring. 



154 Voices of Freedom. 

Broken the bondman's chain, and gone 

The master's guilt, and hate, and fear, 
And unto both alike shall dawn 
A New and Happy Year. 
1839. 




iMASSACHUSETTS TO VIRGINIA. 

[Written on reading an account of the proceedings of the citizens of Norfolk, 
Va., in reference to George Latimfr, the alleged fugitive slave, the result of 
whos- case in Massachusetts will probably be similar to that of the negro Somerset 
in England, in 1772.] 

The blast from Freedom's Northern hills, upon its Southern 

way, 
Bears greeting to Virginia from Massachusetts Bay : — 
No word of haughty challenging, nor battle bugle's peal, 
Nor steady tread of marching files, nor clang of horsemen's 

steel. 

No trains of deep-mouthed cannon along our highways go, — 
Around our silent arsenals untrodden lies the snow ; 
And to the land-breeze of our ports, upon their errands far, 
A thousand sails of commerce swell, but none are spread for 
war. 

We hear thy threats, Virginia ! thy stormy words and high. 
Swell harshly on the Southern winds which melt along our sky ; 
Yet, not one brown, hard hand foregoes its honest labor here, 
No hewer of our mountain oaks suspends his axe in fear. 



Massachusetts to Virginia. 155 

Wild are the waves which lash the reefs along St. George's 

bank, — 
Cold on the shore of Labrador the fog lies white and dank ; 
Through storm, and wave, and blinding mist, stout are the 

hearts which man 
The fishing-smacks of Marblehead, the sea-boats of Cape Ann. 

The cold north light and wintry sun glare on their icy forms, 
Bent grimly o'er their straining lines or wrestling with the 

storms ; 
Free as the winds they drive before, rough as the waves they 

roam. 
They laugh to scorn the slaver's threat against their rocky 

home. 

What means the Old Dominion } Hath she forgot the day 
When o'er her conquered valleys swept the Briton's steel array } 
How side by side, with sons of hers, the Massachusetts men 
Encountered Tarleton's charge of fire, and stout Cornwallis, 
then } 

Forgets she how the Bay State, in answer to the call 

Of her old House of Burgesses, spoke out from Faneuil Hall ? 

When, echoing back her Henry's cry, came pulsing on each 

. breath 
Of Northern winds, the thrilling sounds of '* Liberty OR 
Death !" 

What asks the Old Dominion } If now her sons have proved 
False to their fathers' memory, — false to the faith they loved, 
If she can scoff at Freedom, and its great charter spurn. 
Must we of Massachusetts from truth and duty turn } 

We hunt your bondmen, flying from Slavery's hateful hell, — 
Our voices, at your bidding, take up the bloodhound's yell, — 
We gather, at your summons, above our fathers' graves, 
From Freedom's holy altar-horns to tear your wretched slaves 1 

Thank God ! not yet so vilely can Massachusetts bow ; 

The spirit of her early time is with her even now ; 

Dream not because her Pilgrim blood moves slow and calm and 

cool. 
She thus can stoop her chainless neck, a sister's slave and 

tool! 



■56 



Voices of Freedom. 




:A- 



Bent grimly o'er thkir straining lines or wrestling with ihe sIokms. 

All that a sister State should do, all that 3. free State may, 
Heart, hand, and purse we proffer, as in our early day ; 
But that one dark loathsome burden ye must stagger with alone, 
And reap the bitter harvest which ye yourselves have sown ! 

Hold, while ye may, your struggling slaves, and burden God's 

free air 
With woman's shriek beneath the lash, and manhood's wild 

despair ; 
Cling closer to the " cleaving curse" that writes upon your 

plains 
The blasting of Almighty wrath against a land of chains. 

Still shame your gallant ancestry, the cavaliers of old. 
By watching round the shambles where human flesh is sold, — 
Gloat o'er ihe new-born child, and count his market value, when 
The maddened mother's cry of woe shall pierce the slaver's den ! 



Massac Jill setts to Virginia. 157 

Lower than plummet soundeth. sink the Virginia name"; 

Plant, if ye will, your fathers' graves with rankest weeds of 

shame ; 
Be, if ye will, the scandal of God's fair universe, — 
We wash our hands forever of your sin and shame and curse. 

A voice from lips whereon the coal from Freedom's shrine hath 

been, 
Thrilled, as but yesterday, the hearts of Berkshire's mountain 

men : 
The echoes of that solemn voice are sadly lingering still 
In all our sunny valleys, on every wind-swept hill. 

And when the prowling man-thief came hunting for his prey 

Beneath the ver}' shadow of Bunker's shaft of gray, 

How, through the free lips of the son, the father's warning 

spoke : 
How, from its bonds of trade and sect, the Pilgrim city broke ! 

A hundred thousand right arms were Hfted up on high, — 
A hundred thousand voices sent back their loud reply ; 
Through the thronged towns of Essex the startling summons 

rang, 
And up from bench and loom and wheel her young mechanics 

sprang ! 

The voice of free, broad Middlesex, — of thousands as of one, — 
The shaft of Bunker calling to that of Lexington, — 
From Norfolk's ancient villages, from Plymouth's rocky bound 
To where Nantucket feels the arms of ocean close her round ; — 

From rich and rural Worcester, where through the calm repose 
Of cultured vales and fringing woods the gentle Nashua fiows. 
To where Wachuset's wintry blasts the mountain larches stir. 
Swelled up to Heaven the thrilling cry of " God save Latimer !" 

And sandy Barnstable rose up, wet with the salt sea spray, — 
And Bristol sent her answering shout down Narragansett Bay! 
Along the broad Connecticut old Hampden felt the thrill, 
And the cheer of Hampshire's woodmen swept down from 
Holyoke Hill. 

The voice of Massachusetts I Of her free sons and daughters, — 
Deep calling unto deep aloud, — the sound of many waters ! 
Against the burden of that voice what tyrant power shall stand ? 
No fetters in the Bay State ! No slave upon her la7id I 



158 Voices of Freedom. 

Look to it well, Virginians ! In calmness we have borne, 
In answer to our faith and trust, your insult and your scorn ; 
You've spurned our kindest counsels, — you've hunted for our 

lives, — 
And shaken round our hearths and homes your manacles and 



We wage no war, — we lift no arm, — we fling no torch within 
The fire damps of the quaking mine beneath your soil of sin ; 
We leave ye with your bondmen, to wrestle, while ye can, 
With the strong upward tendencies and godlike soul of man ! 



But for us and for our children, the vow which we have given 
For freedom and humanity is registered in heaven ; 
No slave-hu7it iii our borders, — no pirate on our strand ! 
No fetters in the Bay State, — no slave upon our land! 




The Relic. 



159 





^ 






[Pfnnsylvania Hall, dedicated to Free Discussion and the cause of human 
liberty, was destroyed by a mob in 1838. The following was written on receiving 
a cane wrought from a fragment of the wood-woik which the fire had spared.] 



Token of friendship true and tried, 
From one whose tiery heart of youth 

With mine has beaten, side by side, 
For Liberty and Truth ; 

With honest pride the gift I take. 

And prize it for the giver's sake. 

But not alone because it tells 

Of generous hand and heart sincere ; 

Around that gift of friendship dwells 
A memory doubly dear, — 

Earth's noblest aim, — man's holiest thought, 

With that memorial frail inwrought ! 



Pure thoughts and sweet, like flowers unfold. 
And precious memories round it cling, 

Even as the Prophet's rod of old. 
In beauty blossoming: 

And buds of feeling pure and good 

Spring from its cold unconscious wood. 



i6o Voices of Freedom. 



Relic of Freedom's shrine ! — a brand 
Plucked from its burning ! — let it be 

Dear as a jewel from the hand 
Of a lost friend to me ! — 

Flower of a perished garland left, 

Of life and beauty un bereft ! 

O, if the young enthusiast bears, 
O'er weary waste and sea, the stone 

Which crumbled from the Forum's stairs, 
Or round the Parthenon ; 

Or olive-bough from some wild tree 

Hung over old Thermopylse : 

If leaflets from some hero's tomb, 

Or moss-wreath torn from ruins hoary, — 

Or faded flowers whose sisters bloom 
On fields renowned in story, — 

Or fragment from the Alharnbra's crest. 

Or the gray rock by Druids blessed ; 

Sad Erin's shamrock greenly growing 
Where Freedom led her stalwart kern. 

Or Scotia's " rough bur thistle" blowing 
On Bruce's Bannockburn, — 

Or Runnymede's wild English rose, 

Or lichen plucked from Sempach's snows: — 

If it be true that things like these 

To heart and eye bright visions bring, 

Shall not far holier memories 
To this memorial cling ? 

Which needs no mellowing mist of time 

To hide the crimson stains of crime ! 

Wreck of a temple, unprofaned, — 

Of courts where Peace with Freedom trod, 

Lifting on high, with hands unstained. 
Thanksgiving unto God; 

Where Mercy's voice of love was pleading, 

For human hearts in bondage bleeding ! — 

Where, midst the sound of rushing feet 
And curses on the night-air flung. 

That i)leading voice rose calm and sweet 
From woman's earnest tongue ; 



The Branded Hand. i6i 

And Riot turned his scowling glance, 
Awed, from her tranquil countenance ! 

That temple now in ruin lies ! — 
The fire-stain on its shattered wall, 

And open to the changing skies 
Its black and roofless hall, 

It stands before a nation's sight, 

A gravestone over buried Right ! 

But from that ruin, as of old, 

The fire-scorched stones themselves are crying. 
And from their ashes white and cold 

Its timbers are replying ! 
A voice which slavery cannot kill 
Speaks from the crumbling arches still I 

And even this relic from thy shrine. 

O holy Freedom ! hath to me 
A potent power, a voice and sign 

To testify of thee ; 
And, grasping it, methinks I feel 
A deeper faith, a stronger zeal. 

And not unlike that mystic rod, 

Of old stretched o'er the Egyptian wave. 

Which opened, in the strength of God, 
A pathway for the slave, 

It yet may point the bondsman's way, 

And turn the spoiler from his prey. 

THE BRANDED HAND. 
1846. 

Welcome home again, brave seaman ! with thy thoughtful 

brow and gra\-, 
And the old heroic spirit of our earlier, better day, — 
With that front of calm endurance, on whose steady nerve in 

vain 
Pressed the iron of the prison, smote the fier)- shafts of pain ! 

Is the tyrant's brand upon thee ? Did the brutal cravens aimi 
To make God's truth thy falsehood, his holiest work thy shame? 
When, all blood-quenched, from the torture the iron was with- 
drawn, 
How laughed their evil angel the baffled fools to scorn ! 



1 62 Voices of Freedom. 



They change to wrong the duty which God hath written out 

On the great heart of humanity, too legible for doubt ! 

They, the loathsome moral lepers, blotched from footsole up to 

crown, 
Give to shame what God hath given unto honor and renown ! 

Why, that brand is highest honor ! — than its traces never yet 
Upo'n did armorial hatchments was a prouder blazon set ; 
And thv unborn generations, as thev tread our rocky strand, 
Shall tell with pride the story of thei'r father's BRANDED HAND ! 

As the Templar home was welcome, bearing back from Syrian 

wars 
The scars of Arab lances and of Paynim scymitars, 
The pallor of the prison, and the shackle's crimson span, 
So we meet thee, so we greet thee, truest friend of God and man. 

He suffered for the ransom of the dear Redeemer's grave, 
Thou for his living presence in the bound and bleeding slave; 
He for a soil no longer by the feet of angels trod, 
Thou for the true Shechinah, the present home of God ! 

For, while the jurist, sitting with the slave-whip o'er him swung, 
From the tortured truths of freedom the lie of slavery wrung. 
And the solemn priest to Moloch, on each God-deserted shrine, 
Broke the bondman's heart for bread, poured the bondman's 
blood for wine, — 

While the multitude in blindness to a far-off Saviour knelt. 
And spurned, the while, the temple where a present Saviour 

dwelt ; 
Thou beheld'st him in the task-field, in the prison shadows dim. 
And thy mercy to the bondman, it was mercy unto him I 

In thy lone and long night-watches, sky above and wave below, 
Tliou didst learn a higher wisdom than the babbling school- 
men know ; 
God's stars and silence taught thee, as his angels only can, 
That the one sole sacred thing beneath the cope of heaven is 
Man ! 

That he who treads profanely on the scrolls of law and creed. 
In the depth of God's great goodness may find mercy in his 

need ; 
But woe to him who crushes the SOUL with chain and rod. 
And herds with lower natures the awful form of God ! 



Texas. 163 

Then lift that manly right-hand, bold ploughman of the wave I 
Its branded palm shall prophesy, "Salvation to the 

Slave! ' 
Hold up its tire-wrought language, that whoso reads may feel 
His heart swell strong within him, his sinews change to steel. 

Hold it up before our sunshine, up against our Northern air, — 
Ho ! men of Massachusetts, for the love of God, look there ! 
Take it henceforth for your standard, like the Bruce's heart of 

yore. 
In the dark strife closing round ye, let that hand be seen before ! 

And the tyrants of the slave-land shall tremble at that sign, 
When it points its finger Southward along the Puritan line : 
Woe to the State-gorged leeches and the Church's locust band. 
When they look from slavery's ramparts on the coming ot that 
hand! 

TEXAS. 

VOICE OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Up the hillside, dowm the glen, 
Rouse the sleeping citizen ; 
Summon out the might of men ! 

Like a lion growling low, — 
Like a night-storm rising slow, — 
Like the tread of unseen foe, — 

It is coming,^it is nigh ! 

Stand your homes and altars by ; 

On vour own free thresholds die. 

Clang the bells in all your spires ; 
On the gray hills of your sires 
Fling to heaven your signal-fires. 

From Wachuset, lone and bleak. 

Unto Berkshire's tallest peak, 

Let the fiame-tongued heralds speak. 

O, for God and duty stand, 
Heart to heart and hand to hand. 
Round the old graves of the land. 



i64 



Voices of Freedom. 



Whoso shrinks or falters now, 
Whoso to the yoke would bow, 
Brand the craven on his brow ! 

Freedom's soil hath only place 
For a free and fearless race. — 
None for traitors false and base. 



%^ 




Clang the bells 



^LI, VOLTR SPIRES. 



Perish party, — perish clan ; 
Strike together while ye can, 
Like the arm of one strong man. 

Like that angel's \'oice sublime, 
Heard above a world of crime. 
Crying of the end of time, — 



With one heart and with one mouth. 
Let the North unto the South 
Speak the word befitting both : 



Texas. 

" What though Issachar be strong- ! 
Ye may load his back with wrong 
Overmuch and over long : 

" Patience with her cup o'errun. 
With her wear}^ thread outspun, 
Murmurs that her work is done. 

" Make our Union-bond a chain, 
\Veak as tow in Freedom's strain 
Link by link shall snap in twain. 

" \'ainly shall your sand-wrought rope 
Bind the starry cluster up, 
Shattered over heaven's blue cope I 

" Give us bright though broken rays, 
Rather than eternal haze, 
Clouding o'er the full-orbed blaze. 

" Take your land of sun and bloom ; 

Only leave to Freedom room 

For her plough, and forge, and loom ; 

" Take your slaver>--blackened vales ; 
Leave us but our own free gales, 
Blowing on our thousand sails. 

" Boldly, or with treacherous art, 
Strike the blood-wrought chain apart ; 
Break the Union's mighty heart ; 

" Work the ruin, if ye will ; 
Pluck upon your heads an ill 
Which shall grow and deepen still. 

" With your bondman's right arm bare, 
With his heart of black despair, 
Stand alone, if stand ye dare ! 

" Onward with your fell design ; 
Dig the gulf and draw the line : 
Fire beneath your feet the mine : 

" Deeply, when the wide abyss 
Yawns between your land and this, 
Shall ye feel your helplessness. 



66 Voices of Freedom. 



" By the hearth, and in the bed, 
Shaken by a look or tread, 
Ye shall own a guilty dread. 

" And the curse of unpaid toil, 
Downward through your generous soil 
Like a fire shall burn and spoil. 

" Our bleak hills shall bud and blow, 
Vines our rocks shall overgrow, 
Plenty in our valleys flow ; — 

" And when vengeance clouds your skies. 
Hither shall ye turn your eyes, 
As the lost on Paradise ! 

" We but ask our rocky strand, 
Freedom's true and brother band, 
Freedom's strong and honest hand, — 

" Valleys by the slave untrod. 
And the Pilgrim's mountain sod, 
Blessed of our fathers' God !" 



TO FANEUIL HALL. 
1844. 

Men ! — if manhood still ye claim, 

If the Northern pulse can thrill. 
Roused by wrong or stung by shame. 

Freely, strongly still, — 
Let the sounds of traffic die : 

Shut the mill-gate, — leave the stall,- 
Fling the axe and hammer by, — 

Throng to Faneuil Hall ! 

Wrongs which freemen never brooked, 

Dangers grim and fierce as they, 
W^hich, like couching lions, looked 

On your fathers' way, — 
These your instant zeal demand. 

Shaking with their earthquake-call 
Everv rood of Pilgrim land, 

Ho, to Faneuil Hall! 



To Massachusetts. iGj 



From your capes and sandy bars, — 

From your mountain-ridges cold, 
Through whose pines the westering stars 

Stoop their crowns of gold, — 
Come, and with your footsteps wake 

Echoes from that holy wall ; 
Once again, for Freedom's sake, 

Rock your fathers' hall ! 

Up, and tread beneath your feet 

Every cord by party spun : 
Let your hearts together beat 

As the heart of one. 
Banks and tariffs, stocks and trade, 

Let them rise or let them fall : 
Freedom asks your common aid, — 

Up, to Faneuil Hall ! 

Up, and let each voice that speaks 

Ring from thence to Southern plains, 
Sharply as the blow which breaks 

Prison-bolts and chains ! 
Speak as well becomes the free : 

Dreaded more than steel or ball, 
Shall your calmest utterance be. 

Heard from Faneuil Hall ! 

Have they wronged us ? Let us then 

Render back nor threats nor prayers ; 
Have they chained our free-born men ? 

Let us unchain theirs ! 
Up, your banner leads the van, 

Blazoned, " Liberty for all !" 
Finish what your sires began ! 

Up. to Faneuil Hall ! 



TO MASSACHUSETTS. 
1844. 

What though around thee blazes 

No fiery rallying sign ? 
From all thy own high places. 

Give heaven the light of thine ! 



1 68 Voices of Free don:. 

What though untlirillecl, unmovincr, 
The statesman stands apart, 

And comes no warm approving 
From Mammon's crowded mart ? 

Still, let the land be shaken 

By a summons of thine own ! 
By all save truth forsaken, 

Why, stand with that alone ! 
Shrink not from strife unequal ! 

With the best is always hope ; 
And ever in the sequel 

God holds the right side up ! 

But when, with thine uniting. 

Come voices long and loud. 
And far-off hills are writing 

Thy lire-words on the cloud ; 
When from Penobscot's fountains 

A deep response is heard, 
And across the Western mountains 

Rolls back thy rallying word ; 

Shall thy line of battle falter, 

With its allies just in view ? 
O, by hearth and holy altar. 

My fatherland, be true ! 
Fling abroad thy scrolls of Freedom ! 

Speed them onward far and fast ! 
Over hill and valley speed them. 

Like the sibyl's on the blast ! 

Lo ! the Empire State is shaking 

The shackles from her hand ; 
With the rugged North is waking 

The level sunset land ! 
On they come, — the free battalions 1 

East and West and North they come, 
And the heart-beat of the millions 

Is the beat of Freedom's drum. 

" To the tyrant's plot no favor ! 

No heed to place-fed knaves ! 
Bar and bolt the door forever 

Against the land of slaves !" 
Hear it, mother Earth, and hear it, 

The Heavens above us spread ! 
The land is roused, — its spirit 

Was sleeping, but not dead I 



The Pine- Tree. 



169 



r 




Tfle fjiHcr-Tp^Ee 



1846. 

Lift again the stately em- 
blem on the Bay State's 
rusted shield, 
Give to Northern winds 
the Pine-Tree on our 
banner's tattered field. 
Sons of men who sat in 
council with their Bibles 
round the board, 
Answering England's roy- 
al missive with a firm, 
" Thus saith the 
Lord !" 
Rise again for home and freedom ! — set 

the battle in array ! — 
What the fathers did of old time we 
their sons must do to-day. 

Tell us not of banks and tariffs, — cease 

your paltry pedler cries, — 
Shall the good State sink her honor that 

your gambling stocks may rise ? 
Would ye barter man for cotton ? — That 

your gains may be the same 
Must we kiss the feet of Moloch, pass 

our children through the flame ? 
Is the dollar only real ?— God and truth 

and right a dream ? 
Weighed against your lying ledgers must 

our manhood kick the beam ? 

O my God !— for that free spirit, which of old in Boston town 
Smote the Province House with terror,- struck the crest of 

Andros down ! — 
For another strong-voiced Adams in the city's streets to cry, 
" Up for God and Massachusetts !— Set your feet on Mammon's 

lie! 



yo Voices of Freedom. 



Perish banks and perish traffic, ^ — spin your cotton's latest 

pound, — 
But in Heaven's name keep your honor, — keep the heart o' the 

Bay State sound !" 

Where's the MAN for Massachusetts ? — Where's the voice to 

speak her free ? — 
Where's the hand to hg-ht uj) bonfires from her mountains to 

the sea ? 
Beats her Pilgrim pulse no longer ? — Sits she dumb in her 

despair ? — 
Has she none to break the silence? — Has she none to do and 

dare ? 
O my God ! for one right worthy to lift up her rusted shield. 
And to plant again the Pine-Tree in her banner's tattered field, 

LINES, 

SUGGESTED BY A VISIT TO THE CITY OF WASHINGTON, IN 
THE TWELFTH MONTH OF 1845. 

With a cold and wintry noon-light, 

On its roofs and steeples shed, 
Shadows weaving with the sunlight 
From the gray sky overhead, 
Broadly, vaguely, all around me, lies the half-built town out- 
spread. 

Through this broad street, restless ever, 

Ebbs and flows a human tide, 
Wave on wave a living river ; 

Wealth and fashion side by side ; 
Toiler, idler, slave and master, in the same quick current glide. 

Underneath yon dome, whose coping 
Springs above them, vast and tail, 
Grave men in the dust are groping 
For the largess, base and small, 
Which the hand of Power is scattering, crumbs which from its 
table fall. 

Base of heart ! They vilely barter 
Honor's wealth for party's place : 
Step by step on Freedom's charter 
Leaving footprints of disgrace ; 
For to-day's poor pittance turning from the great hope of their 
race, 



Lines. • .171 

Yet, where festal lamps are throwing 

Glory round the dancer's hair, 
Gold-lressed, like an angel's, flowing 
Baci<ward on the sunset air; 
And the low quick pulse of music beats its measure sweet and 
rare : 

There to-night shall woman's glances, 

Star-like, welcome give to them, 
Fawning fools with shy advances 
Seek to touch their garments' hem. 
With the tongue of flattery glozing deeds which God and Truth 
condemn. 

From this glittering lie my vision 
Takes a broader, sadder range, 
Full before me have arisen 

Other pictures dark and strange ; 
From the parlor to the prison must the scene and witness 
change. 

Hark ! the heavy gate is swinging 

On its hinges, harsh and slow ; 
One pale prison lamp is flinging 

On a fearful group below 
Such a lisrht as leaves to terror whatsoe'er it does not show. 



Pitying God !— Is that a woman 

On whose wrist the shackles clash ? 
Is that shriek she utters human. 
Underneath the stinging lash ? 
Are they men whose eyes of madness from that sad procession 
flash } 

Still the dance goes gayly onward ! 
What is it to Wealth and Pride 
That without the stars are looking 
On a scene which earth should hide } 
That the SLAVE-SHIP lies in waiting, rocking on Potomac's tide ! 



Vainly to that mean Ambition 

Which, upon a rival's fall, 
Winds above its old condition. 
With a reptile's slimy crawl. 
Shall the pleading voice of sorrow, shall the slave in anguish 
call. 



172 , Voices of Freedom. 

Vainly to the child of Fashion, 

Giving to ideal woe 
Graceful luxury of compassion, 
Shall the stricken mourner go ; 
Hateful seems the earnest sorrow, beautiful the hollow show ! 



Nay, my words are all too sweeping : 

in this crowded human mart, 
Feeling is not dead, but sleeping ; 

Man's strong will and woman's heart, 
In the coming strife for Freedom, yet shall bear their generous 
part. 

And from yonder sunny valleys. 

Southward in the distance lost. 
Freedom yet shall summon allies 

Worthier than the North can boast, 
With the Evil by their hearth-stones grappling at severer cost. 



Now, the soul alone is willing : 

Faint the heart and weak the knee ; 

And as yet no lip is thrilling 

With the mighty words, " Be Free !" 
Tarrieth Ions;- the land's Good Angel, but his advent is to be ! 



Meanwhile, turning from the revel 

To the prison-cell my sigut, 
For intenser hate of evil. 

For a keener sense of right, 
Shaking off thy dust, I thank thee, City of the Slaves, to-night ! 



" To thy duty now and ever ! 

Dream no more of rest or stay ; 
Give to Freedom's great endeavor 

All thou art and hast to day" : — 
Thus, above the city's murnmr, saith a Voice, or seems to say. 

Ye with heart and vision gifted 

To discern and love the right, 
Whose worn faces have been lifted 
To the slowly-growing light. 
Where from Freedom's sunrise drifted slowly back the murk 
of night ! — 



Lines. 173 

Ye who through long years of trial 
Still have held your purpose fast, 
While a lengthening shade the dial 
From the westering sunshine cast, 
And of hope each hour's denial seemed an echo of the last I — 

O my brothers ! O my sisters ! 

Would to God that ye were near, 
Gazing with me down the vistas 
Of a sorrow strange and drear ; 
Would to God that ye were listeners to the Voice I seem to 
hear ! 




Where from Freedom's sunrise drifted slowly back the murk of night 

With the storm above us driving. 
With the false earth mined below, — 

Who shall marvel if thus striving 
We have counted friend as foe ; 
Unto one another giving in the darkness blow for blow. 

Well it may be that our natures 

Have grown sterner and more hard, 
And the freshness of their features 
Somewhat harsh and battle-scarred. 
And their hannonies of feeling overtasked and rudelv jarred. 



174 Voices of Freedom. 

Be it so. It should not swerve us 
From a purpose true and brave ; 

Dearer Freedom's rugged service 
Than the pastime of the slave; 
Better is the storm above it than the quiet of the grave. 

Let us then, uniting, bury 

All our idle feuds in dust, 
And to future conflicts carry 

Mutual faith and common trust ; 
Always he who most forgiveth in his brother is most just. 

From the eternal shadow rounding 

All our sun and starlight here, 
Voices of our lost ones sounding 
Bid us be of heart and cheer. 
Through the silence, down the spaces, falling on the inward 
ear. 

Know we not our dead are looking 

Downward with a sad surprise. 
All our strife of words rebuking 
With their mild and loving eyes ? 
Shall we grieve the holy angels } Shall we cloud their blessed 
skies }^ 

Let us draw their mantles o'er us 

Which have fallen in our way; 
Let us do the work before us, 

Cheerly, bravely, while we may, 
Ere the long night-silence cometh.and with us it is not day ! 



LINES. 
FROM A LETTER TO A YOUNG CLERICAL FRIEND. 

A STRENGTH Thy service cannot tire, — 
A faith which doubt can never dim, — 

A heart of love, a lip of fire, — 

O Freedom's God ! be thou to him ! 

Speak through him words of power and fear, 
As through thy prophet bards of old. 

And let a scornful people hear 

Once ]-nore thy Sinai-thunders rolled. 



Yorktozun. i75 



For lying lips th}- blessing seek, 

And hands of blood are raised to Thee, 

And on thy children, crushed and weak. 
The oppressor plants his kneeling knee. 

Let then, O God ! thy servant dare 
Thy iruth in all its power to tell. 

Unmask the priestly thieves, and tear 
The Bible trom the grasp of hell ! 

From hollow rite and narrow span 
Of law and sect by Thee released, 

O, leach him that the Christian man 
Is hoher than the Jewish priest. 

Chase back the shadows, gray and old. 
Of the dead ages, from his way. 

And let his hopeful eyes behold 
The dawn of thy millennial day ; — 

That day when fettered limb and mind 
Shall know the truth which maketh free, 

And he alone who loves his kind 

Shall, childlike, claim the love of Thee ! 



YORKTOWN/6 

From Yorktown's ruins, ranked and still. 
Two lines stretch far o'er vale and hill : 
Who curbs his steed at head of one } 
Hark ! the low murmur : Washington ! 
Who bends his keen, approving glance 
Where down the gorgeous line of France 
Shine knightly star and plume of snow } 
Thou too art victor, Rochambeau ! 

The earth which bears this calm array 
Shook with the war-charge yesterday. 
Ploughed deep with hurrying hoof and wheel, 
Shot-sown and bladed thick with steel; 
October's clear and noonday sun 
Paled in the breath-smoke of the gun. 
And down night's double blackness fell, 
Like a dropped star, the blazing shell. 



176 Voices of Freedom. 



Now all is hushed : the gleaming lines 
Stand moveless as the neighboring pines ; 
While through them, sullen, grim, and slow, 
The conquered hosts of England go : 
O'Hara's brow belies his dress. 
Gay Tarleton's troop rides bannerless : 
Shout, from thy fired and wasted homes. 
Thy scourge, Virginia, captive comes ! 

Nor thou alone : with one glad voice 
Let all thy sister States rejoice ; 
Let Freedom, in whatever clime 
She waits with sleepless eye her time, 
Shouting from cave and mountain wood 
Make glad her desert solitude. 
While they who hunt her quail with fear; 
The New World's chain lies broken here ! 

But who are they, who, cowering, wait 
Within the shattered fortress gate ? 
Dark tillers of Virginia's soil. 
Classed with the battle's common spoil, 
With household stuffs, and fowl, and swine, 
With Indian weed and planters' v^ine. 
With stolen beeves, and foraged corn, — 
Are they not men, Virginian born ? 

O, veil your faces, young and brave ! 
Sleep, Scammel, in thy soldier grave ! 
Sons of the Northland, ye who set 
Stout hearts against the bayonet. 
And pressed with steady footfall near 
The moated battery's blazing tier. 
Turn your scarred faces from the sight, 
Let shame do homage to the right ! 

Lo ! threescore years have passed ; and where 
The Gallic timbrel stirred the air, 
With Northern drum-roll, and the clear. 
Wild horn-blow of the mountaineer, 
While Britain grounded on that plain 
The arms she might not lift again, 
As abject as in that old day 
The slave still toils his life away. 

O, fields still green and fresh in story, 
Old days of pride, old names of glory. 



Lines. 177 

Old marvels of the tongue and pen, 

Old thoughts which stirred the hearts of men, 

Ye spared the wrong ; and over all 

Behold the avenging shadow fall ! 

Your world-wide honor stained with shame, — 

Your freedom's self a hollow name ! 

Where 's now the flag of that old war? 

Where flows its stripe ? Where burns its star ? 

Bear witness, Palo Alto's day, 

Dark Vale of Palms, red Monterey, 

Where Mexic Freedom, young and weak, 

Fleshes the Northern eagle's beak ; 

Symbol of terror and despair, 

Of chains and slaves, go seek it there ! 

Laugh, Prussia, midst thy iron ranks ! 
Laugh, Russia, from thy Neva's banks ! 
Brave sport to see the fledgling born 
Of Freedom by its parent torn ! 
Safe now is Speilberg's dungeon cell, 
Safe drear Siberia's frozen hell : 
With Slavery's flag o'er both unrolled. 
What of the New World fears the Old ? 

LINES, 

WRITTEN IN THE BOOK OF A FRIEND. 

On page of thine I cannot trace 

The cold and heartless commonplace, — 

A statue's fixed and marble grace. 

For ever as these lines I penned. 

Still with the thought of thee will blend 

That of some loved and common friend, — 

Who in life's desert track has made 
His pilgrim tent with mine, or strayed 
Beneath the same remembered shade. 

And hence my pen unfettered moves 
In freedom which the heart approves, — 
The negligence which friendship loves. 

And wilt thou prize my poor gift less 

For simple air and rustic dress, 

And sign of haste and carelessness ? — 



178 Voices of Freedom. 

O, more than specious counterfeit 

Of sentiment or studied wit, 

A heart Hke thine should value it. 

Yet half I fear my gift will be 
Unto thy book, if not to thee, 
Of more than doubtful courtesy. 

A banished name from fashion's sphere, 

A lay unheard of Beauty s ear. 

Forbid, disowned,— what do they here? — 

Upon my ear not all in vain 

Came the sad captive's clanking chain, — 

The groaning from his bed of pain. 

And sadder still, I saw the woe 

Which only wounded spirits know 

When Pride's strong footsteps o'er them go. 

Spurned not alone in walks abroad. 
But from the " temples of the Lord" 
Thrust out apart, like things abhorred. 

D ep as I felt, and stern and strong. 

In words which Prudence smothered long, 

My soul spoke out against the wrong ; 

Not mine alone the task to speak 
Of comfort to the poor and weak, 
And dry the tear on Sorrow's cheek ; 

But, mingled in the conflict warm, 
To pour the liery breath of storm 
Through the harsh trumpet of Reform ; 

To brave Opinion's settled frown. 
From ermined robe and saintly gown, 
While wrestling reverenced Error down. 

Founts gushed beside my pilgrim way, 
Cool shadow^s on the greensward lay, 
Flowers swung upon the bending spray. 

And, broad and bright, on either hand. 
Stretched the green slopes of Fairy-land, 
With Hope's eternal sunbow spanned ; 



Lines. 



i7v 



Whence voices called me like the flow, 
Which on the listener's ear will grow, 
Of forest streamlets soft and low. 

And gentle eyes, which still retain 
Their picture on the heart and brain. 
Smiled, beckoning from that path of pain. 

In vain I — nor dream, nor rest, nor pause 
Remain for him who round him draws 
The battered mail of Freedom's cause. 





^^ 



^"^^WJTS^ 



Voices called me like n he flow, which on the listener s ear will grow, 
OK fokest streamlets soft and low. 



From youthful hopes, — from each green spot 
Of young Romance, and gentle Thought, 
Where storm and tumult enter not, — 

From each fair altar, where belong 
The offerings Love requires of Song 
In homage to her bright-eyed throng, — 



With soul and streni^th, with heart and hand, 
I turned to Freedom's struggling band, — 
To the sad Helots of our land. 



i8o Voices of Freedom. 



What marvel then that Fame should turn 
Her notes of praise to those of scorn, — 
Her gifts reclaimed,— her smiles withdrawn ? 

What matters it ! — a few years more, 
Life's surge so restless heretofore 
Shall break upon the unknowai shore ! 

In that far land shall disappear 

The shadows which we follow here, — 

The mist-wreaths of our atmosphere ! 

Before no work of mortal hand. 
Of human wall or strength expand 
The pearl gates of the Better Land ; 

Alone in that great love which gave 
Life to the sleeper of the grave, 
Resteth the power to " seek and save." 

Yet, if the spirit gazing through 

The vista of the past can view 

One deed to Heaven and virtue true, — 

If through the wreck of wasted powders, 
Of garlands wa'eathed from Folly's bowers, 
Of idle aims and misspent hours, — 

The eye can note one sacred spot 
By Pride and Self profaned not, — 
A green place in the waste of thought, — 

Where deed or word hath rendered less 
" The sum of human wretchedness," 
And Gratitude looks forth to bless, — 

The simple burst of tenderest feeling 
From sad hearts w^orn by evil-dealing, 
For blessing on the hand of healing, — 

Better than Glory's pomp will be 
That green and blessed spot to me, 
A palm-shade in Eternity ! — 

Something of Time which may invite 
The j)urified and spiritual sight 
To rest on with a calm delig-ht, 



Lines. i8i 



And when the summer winds shall sweep 
With their hght wings my place of sleep, 
And mosses round my headstone creep, — 

If still, as Freedom's rallying sign, 
Upon the young heart's altars shine 
The very tires they caught from mine,— 

If words my lips once uttered still. 
In the calm faith and steadfast will 
Of other hearts, their work fulfil, — 

Perchance with joy the soul may learn 

These tokens, and its eye discern 

The fires which on those altars burn, — 

A marvellous joy that even then, 

The spirit hath its life again. 

In the strong hearts of mortal men. 

Take, lady, then, the gift I bring. 

No gay and graceful offering, — 

No fiower-smile of the laughing spring. 

Midst the green buds of Youth's fresh May 
With Fancy's leaf-enwoven bay, 
My sad and sombre gift I lay. 

And if it deepens in thy mind 

A sense of suffering human-kind, — 

The outcast and the spirit- blind : 

Oppressed and spoiled on every side, 
By Prejudice, and Scorn, and Pride, 
Life's common courtesies denied ; 

Sad mothers mourning o'er their trust, 
Children by want and misery nursed. 
Tasting life's bitter cup at first ; 

If to their strong appeals which come 
From fireless hearth, and crowded room, 
And the close alley's noisome gloom, — 

Though dark the hands upraised to thee 

In mute beseeching agony. 

Thou lend'st thy woman's sympathy, — 



i82 Voices of Freedo??i. 



Not vainly on thy gentle shrine, 

Where Love, and Mirth, and Friendship twine 

Their varied gifts, I offer mine. 



THE CURSE OF THE CHARTER-BREAKERS." 

In Westminster's royal halls, 
Robed in their pontificals 
England's ancient prelates stood 
For the people's right and good. 

Closed around the waiting crowd, 
Dark and still, like winter's cloud ; 
King and council, lord and knight, 
Squire and yeoman, stood in sight, — 

Stood to hear the priest rehearse. 
In God's name, the Church's curse. 
By the tapers round them lit, 
Slowly, sternly uttering it- 

" Right of voice in framing laws, 
Right of peers to try each cause ; 
Peasant homestead, mean and small, 
Sacred as the monarch's hall, — 

" Whoso lays his hand on these, 
England's ancient liberries, — 
Whoso breaks, by word or deed, 
England's vow at Runnymede, — 

" Be he Prince or belted knight, 
Whatsoe'er his rank or might. 
If the highest, then the worst, 
Let him live and die accursed. 

" Thou, who to thy Church hast given 
Kevs alike, of hell and heaven, 
Make our word and witness sure, 
Let the curse we speak endure !" 

Silent, while that curse was said, 
Every bare and listening he.ad 
Bowed in reverent awe, and then 
All the people said, Amen ! 



The Curse of the Charter-Breakers. 183 

Seven times the bells have tolled. 
For the centuries gray and old, 
Since that stoled and mitred band 
Cursed the tyrants of their land. 

Since the priesthood, like a tower, 
Stood between the poor and power ; 
And the wronged and trodden down 
Blessed the abbot's shaven crown. 

Gone, thank God, their wizard soell, 
Lost, their keys of heaven and hell ; 
Yet I sigh for men as bold 
As those bearded priests of old. 

Now, too oft the priesthood wait 
At the threshold of the state, — 
Waiting for the beck and nod 
Of its power as law and God. 

Fraud exults, while solemn words 
Sanctify his stolen hoards ; 
Slavery laughs, while ghostly lips 
Bless his manacles and whips. 

Not on them the poor rely. 

Not to them looks Hberty, 

Who with fawning falsehood cower 

To the wrong, when clothed with power. 

O, to see them meanly cling, 
Round the master, round the king. 
Sported with, and sold and bought, — 
Pitifuller sight is not ! 

Tell me not that this must be : 
God's true priest is always free ; 
Free, the needed truth to speak. 
Right the wronged, and raise the weak. 

Not to fawn on wealth and state, 
Leaving Lazarus at the gate, — 
Not to peddle creeds like wares, — 
Not to mutter hireling prayers, — 



184 Voices of Freedom. 



Nor to paint the new life's bliss 
On the sable ground of this, — 
Golden streets for idle knave, 
Sabbath rest for weary slave ! 

Not for words and works like these, 
Priest of God, thy mission is ; 
But to make earth's desert glad, 
In its Eden greenness clad ; 

And to level manhood bring 
Lord and peasant, serf and king; 
And the Christ of God to find 
In the humblest of thy kind ! 

Thine to work as well as pray, 
Clearing thorny wrongs away ; 
Plucking up the weeds of sin, 
Letting heaven's warm sunshine in, — 

Watching on the hills of Faith ; 
Listening what the spirit saith. 
Of the dim-seen light afar. 
Growing like a nearing star. 

God's interpreter art thou, 
To the waiting ones below ; 
'Twixt them and its light midway 
Heralding the better day, — 

Catching gleams of temple spires. 
Hearing notes of angel choirs. 
Where, as yet unseen of them. 
Comes the New Jerusalem ! 

Like the seer of Patmos gazing, 
On the glory downward blazing ; 
Till upon Earth's grateful sod 
Rests the City of our God ! 

THE SLAVES OF MARTINIQUE. 

SUGGESTED BY A DAGUERREOTYPE FROM A FRENCH 
ENGRAVING. 

Beams of noon, like burning lances, through the tree-tops flash 

and glisten, 
As she stands before her lover, with raised face to look and 

listen. 



The Slaves of Martinique. 185 



Dark, but comely, like the maiden in the ancient Jewish song : 
Scarcely has the toil of task-fields done her graceful beauty 
wrong. 

He, the strong one and the manly, with the vassal's garb and 

hue, 
Holding still his spirit's birthright, to his higher nature true ; 

Hiding deep the strengthening purpose of a freeman in his heart, 
As the greegree holds his P^etich from the white man's gaze 
apart. 

Ever foremost of his comrades, when the driver's morning horn 
Calls away to stifling mill-house, to the fields of cane and corn : 

Fall the keen and burning lashes never on his back or limb ; 
Scarce with look or word of censure, turns the driver unto him. 

Yet, his brow is always thoughtful, and his eye is hard and 

stern ; 
Slavery's last and humblest lesson he has never deigned to learn. 

And, at evening, when his comrades dance before their master's 

door, 
Folding arms and knitting forehead, stands he silent evermore. 

God be praised for every instinct which rebels against a lot 
Where the brute survives the human, and man's upright form is 
not! 

As the serpent-like bejuco winds his spiral fold on fold 
Round the tall and stately ceiba, till it withers in his hold \— 

Slow decays the forest monarch, closer girds the fell embrace, 
Till the tree is seen no longer, and the vine is in its place, — 

So a base and bestial nature round the vassal's manhood twines, 
And the spirit wastes beneath it, like the ceiba choked with 
vines. 

God is Love, saith the Evangel ; and our world of woe and sin 
Is made light and happy only when a Love is shining in. 

Ye whose lives are free as sunshine, finding, wheresoe'er ye 

roam. 
Smiles of welcome, looks of kindness, making all the world like 

home : 



1 86 Voices of Freedom. 

\w the veins of whose affections kindred blood is ])ut a part, 
Of one kindly current throbbing- from the universal heart ; 

Can ye know the deeper meaning^ of a love in Slavery nursed, 
Last flower of a lost Eden, blooming in that Soil accursed? 

Love of Home, and Love of Woman ! — dear to all, but doubly 

dear 
To the heart whose pulses elsewhere measure only hate and 

fear. 

All around the desert circles, underneath a brazen sky, 
Only one green spot remaining where the dew is never dry ! 

From the horror of that desert, from its atmosphere of hell. 
Turns the fainting spirit thither, as the diver seeks his bell. 

'T is the fervid tropic noontime ; faint and low the sea- waves 

beat ; 
Hazy rise the inland mountains through the ghmmer of the 

heat, — • 

Where, through mingled leaves and blossoms, arrowy sunbeams 

flash and glisten, 
Speaks her lover to the slave-girl, and she lifts her head to 

listen : — 

" We shall live as slaves no longer ! Freedom's hour is close at 

hand ! 
Rocks her bark u])on the waters, rests the boat upon the strand ! 

" I have seen the Haytien Captain ; I have seen his swarthy 

crew. 
Haters of the pallid faces, to their race and color true. 

•' They have sworn to wait our coming till the night has passed 

its noon. 
And the gray and darkening waters roll above the sunken 

moon !" 

O the blessed hope of freedom ! how with joy and glad sur- 
prise. 
For an instant throbs her bosom, for an instant beam her eyes! 

But she looks across the valley, where her mother's hut is seen. 
Through the snowy bloom of coffee, and the lemon-leaves so 
green. 



The Slaves of Martinique. 187 

And she answers, sad and earnest : "It were wrong for thee to 

stay ; 
God hath heard thy prayer for freedom, and his finger points the 

way. 

" Well I know with what endurance, for the sake of me and 

mine, 
Thou hast borne too long a burden never meant for souls like 

thine. 



" Go ; and at the hour of midnight, when our last farewell is 

o'er, 
Kneeling on our place of parting, I will bless thee from the 

shore. 



" But for me, my mother, lying on her sick-bed all the day, 
Lifts her weary head to watch me, coming through the twilight 
gray. 

" Should I leave her sick and helpless, even freedom, shared 

with thee. 
Would be sadder far than bondage, lonely toil, and stripes to 

me. 

" For my heart would die within me, and my brain would soon 

be wild ; 
I should hear my mother calling through the twilight for her 

child !'■ 

Blazing upward from the ocean, shines the sun of morning-time, 
Through the coffee-trees in blossom, and green hedges of the 
lime. 

Side by side, amidst the slave-gang, toil the lover and the maid ; 
Wherefore looks he o'er the waters, leaning forward on his 
spade .'' 

Sadly looks he, deeply sighs he : 't is the Haytien's sail he sees, 
Like a white cloud of the mountains, driven seaward by the 
breeze ! 

But his arm a light hand presses, and he hears a low voice call : 
Hate of Slavery, hope of Freedom, Love is mightier than all. 



l88 l^oices of Freedom. 



THE CRISIS. 

WRITTEN ON LEARNING THE TERMS OF THE TREATY WITH 
MEXICO. 

Across the Stony Mountains, o'er the desert's drouth and sand 
The circles of our empire touch the Western Ocean's strand ; 
From slumberous Timpanogos, to Gila, wild and free, 
Flowing down from Nuevo-Leon to California's sea ; 
And from the mountains of the East, to Santa Rosa's shore, 
The eagles of Mexitli shall beat the air no more. 

O Vale of Rio Bravo ! Let thy simple children weep ; 
Close watch about their holy fire let maids of Pecos keep ; 
Let Taos send her cry across Sierra Madre's pines, 
And Algodones toll her bells amidst her corn and vines ; 
For lo ! the pale land-seekers come, with eager eyes of gain, 
Wide scattering, like the bison herds on broad Salada's plain. 

Let Sacramento's herdsmen heed what sound the winds bring 

down 
Of footsteps on the crisping snow, from cold Nevada's crown ! 
Full hot and fast the Saxon rides, with rein of travel slack. 
And, bending o'er his saddle, leaves the sunrise at his back; 
By many a lonely river, and gorge of fir and pine. 
Oil many a wintry hill-top, his nightly camp-fires shine. 

O countrymen and brothers ! that land of lake and plain, 

Of salt wastes alternating with valleys fat with grain ; 

Of mountains white with winter, looking downward, cold, serene, 

On their feet \\\\\\ spring-vines tangled and lapped in softest 

green ; 
Swift through whose black volcanic gates, o'er many a sunny 

vale. 
Wind-like the Arapahoe sweeps the bison's dusty trail ! 

Great spaces yet untravelled, great lakes whose mystic shores 

The Saxon rifle never heard, nor dip of Saxon oars ; 

Great herds that wander all un watched, Vvild steeds that none 

have tamed. 
Strange fish i]i unknown streams, and birds the Saxon never 

named ; 
Deep mines, dark mountain crucil^les, where Nature's chemic 

powers 
Work out the Great Designer's will ; — all these ye say are ours ! 



The Crisis. 189 

Forever ours ! for good or ill, on us the burden lies ; 

God's balance, watched by angels, is hung across the skies. 

Shall Justice, Truth, and Freedom turn the poised and trembling 

scale ? 
Or shall the Evil triumph, and robber Wrong prevail? 
Shall the broad land o'er which our flag in starry splendor waves, 
Forego through us its freedom, and bear the tread of slaves? 

The day is breaking in the East of which the prophets told, 
And brightens up the sky of Time the Christian Age of Gold ; 
Old Might to Right is yielding, battle blade to clerkly pen, 
Earth's monarchs are her peoples, and her serfs stand up as men ; 
The isles rejoice together, in a day are nations born, 
And the slave walks free in Tunis, and by Stamboul's Golden 
Horn ! 

Is this, O countrymen of mine ! a day for us to sow 
The soil of new-gained empire with slavery's seeds of woe ? 
To feed with our fresh life-blood the Old World's cast-off crime, 
Dropped, like some monstrous early birth, from the tired lap of 

Time ? 
To run anew the evil race the old lost nations ran, 
And die like them of unbelief of God, and wrong of man? 

Great Heaven ! Is this our mission ? End in this the prayers 

and tears, 
The toil, the strife, the watchings of our younger, better years ? 
Still as the Old World rolls in light, shall ours in shadow turn, 
A beamless Chaos, cursed of God, through outer darkness 

borne ? 
Where the far nations looked for light, a blackness in the air? 
Where for words of hope they listened the long wail of despair ? 

The Crisis presses on us ; face to face with us it stands. 

With solemn lips of question, like the Sphinx in Egypt's sands ! 

This day we fashion Destiny, our web of Fate we spin ; 

This day for all hereafter choose we holiness or sin ; 

Even now from starry Gerizim, or Ebal's cloudy crown, 

We call the dews of blessing or the bolts of cursing down ! 

By all for which the martyrs bore their agony and shame ; 

By all the warning words of truth with which the prophets 

came ; 
By the Future which awaits us ; by all the hopes which cast 
Their faint and trembling beams across the blackness of the 

Past; 



190 Voices of Freedom. 

And by the blessed thought of Him who for Earth's freedom 

died, 
O my people ! O my brothers ! let us choose the righteous side. 

So shall the Northern pioneer go joyful on his way ; 
To wed Penobscot's waters to San Francisco's bay ; 
To make the rugged places smooth, and sow the vales with 

grain ; 
And bear, with Liberty and Law, the Bible in his train : 
The mighty West shall bless the East, and sea shall answer sea, 
And mountain unto mountain call, Praise God, for we are 

free! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE KNIGHT OF ST. JOHN. 

Ere down yon blue Carpathian hills 

The sun shall sink again. 
Farewell to life and all its ills, 

Farewell to cell and chain. 

These prison shades are dark and cold, — 

But, darker far than they, 
The shadow of a sorrow old 

Is on my heart alway. 

For since the day when Warkworth wood 

Closed o'er my steed and I, 
An alien from my name and blood, 

A weed cast out to die, — 

When, looking back in sunset light, 

I saw her turret gleam, 
And from its casement, far and white, 

Her sign of farewell stream, 

Like one who, from some desert shore, 
Doth home's green isles descry, 

And, vainly longing, gazes o'er 
The waste of wave and sky ; 

So from the desert of my fate 

I gaze across the past ; 
Forever on life's dial-plate 

The shade is backward cast ! 

I've wandered wide from shore to shore, 

I've knelt at many a shrine ; 
And bowed me to the rocky floor 

Where Bethlehem's tapers shine ; 



92 



Misceltancoiis. 



And by the Holy Sepulchre 
I've pledged my knightly sword 

To Christ, his blessed Church, and her, 
The Mother of our Lord. 

O. vain the vow, and vain the strife ! 

How vain do all things seem ! 
My soul is in the past, and life 

To-day is but a dream ! 




And from its casement, far and white, her sign of farewell, 

In vain the penance strange and long, 

And hard for flesh to bear ; 
The prayer, the fasting, and the thong 

And sackcloth shirt of hair. 



The eyes of memory will not sleep,- 

Its ears are open still ; 
And vigils with the past they keep 

Against my feeble will. 



The Holy Land. 193 



And still the loves and joys of old 

Do evermore uprise ; 
I see the flow of locks of gold, 

The shine of loving eyes ! 

Ah me ! upon another's breast 

Those golden locks recline ; 
I see upon another rest 

The glance that once was mine. 

" O faithless priest ! O perjured knight !" 

I hear the Master cry ; 
" Shut out the vision from thy sight, 

Let Earth and Nature die. 

" The Church of God is now thy spouse, 
And thou the bridegroom art ; 

Then let the burden of thy vows 
Crush down thy human heart!" 

In vain ! This heart its grief must know. 

Till life itself hath ceased, 
And falls beneath the self-same blow 

The lover and the priest ! 

O pitying Mother ! souls of light. 
And saints, and martyrs old ! 

Pray for a weak and sinful knight, 
A suffering man uphold. 

Then let the Paynim work his will. 

And death unbind my chain. 
Ere down yon blue Carpathian hill 

The sun shall fall again. 



THE HOLY LAND. 

FROM LAMARTINE. 

I HAVE not felt, o'er seas of sand, 

The rocking of the desert bark ; 
Nor laved at Hebron's fount my hand. 

By Hebron's ])alm-trees cool and dark 
Nor pitched my tent at even-fall, 

On dust where Job of old has lain, 
Nor dreamed beneath its canvas wall, 

The dream of Jacob o'er again. 



194 Miscellaneous. 



One vast world-page remains unread ; 

How shine the stars in Chaldea's sky, 
How sounds the reverent pilgrim's tread. 

How beats the heart with God so nigh !- 
How round gray arch and column lone 

The spirit of the old time broods, 
And sighs in all the winds that moan 

Along the sandy solitudes ! 

In thy tall cedars, Lebanon, 

I have not heard the nations* cries. 
Nor seen thy eagles stooping down 

Where buried Tyre in ruin lies. 
The Christian's prayer I have not said 

In Tadmor's temples of decay. 
Nor startled, with my dreary tread. 

The waste where Memnon's empire lay. 



Nor have I, from thy hallowed tide, 

O Jordan ! heard the low lament. 
Like that sad wail along thy side 

Which Israel's mournful prophet sent ! 
Nor thrilled within that grotto lone 

Where, deep in night, the Bard of Kings 
Felt hands of fire direct his own, 

And sweep for God the conscious strings. 

I have not climbed to Olivet, 

Nor laid me where my Saviour lay. 
And left his trace of tears as yet 

By angel eyes unwept away ; 
Nor watched, at midnight's solemn time. 

The garden where his prayer and groan, 
Wrung by his sorrov/ and our crime, 

Rose to One listening ear alone. 



I have not kissed the rock-hewn grot 

Where in his Mother's arms he lay. 
Nor knelt upon the sacred spot 

Where last his footsteps pressed the clay ; 
Nor looked on that sad mountain head. 

Nor smote my sinful breast, where wide 
His arms to fold the world he spread, 

And bowed his head to bless — and died ! 



Palestine. 195 



PALESTINE. 

Blest land of Judsea! thrice hallowed of song. 
Where the holiest of memories pilgrim-like throng; 
In the shade of thy palms, by the shores of thy sea, 
On the hills of thy beauty, my heart is with thee. 

With the eye of a spirit I look on that shore. 
Where pilgrim and prophet have lingered before ; 
With the glide of a spirit I traverse the sod 
Made bright by the steps of the angels of God. 

Blue sea of the hills ! — in my spirit I hear 

Thy waters, Genesaret, chime on my ear ; 

Where the Lowly and Just with the people sat down, 

And thy spray on the dust of his sandals was throv^u. 

Beyond are Bethulia's mountains of green. 
And the desolate hills of the wild Gadarenc ; 
And I pause on the goat-crags of Tabor to see 
The gleam of thy waters, O dark Galilee ! 

Hark, a sound in the valley ! where, swollen and strong. 
Thy river, O Kishon, is sweeping along ; 
Where the Canaanite strove with Jehovah in vain. 
And thy torrent grew dark with the blood of the slain. 

There down from his mountains stern Zebulon came, 
And Naphtali's stag, with his eyeballs of flame, 
And the chariots of Jabin rolled harmlessly on, 
For the arm of the Lord was Abinoam's son ! 

There sleep the still rocks and the caverns which rang 
To the song which the beautiful prophetess sang. 
When the princes of Issachar stood by her side. 
And the shout of a host in its triumph replied. 

Lo, Bethlehem's hill-site before me is seen, 
With the mountains around, and the valleys between; 
There rested the shepherds of Judah, and there 
The song of the angels rose sweet on the air. 

And Bethany's palm-trees in beauty still throw 
Their shadows at noon on the ruins below ; 
But where are the sisters who hastened to greet 
The lowly Redeemer, and sit at his feet ? 



19^ Miscellaneous. 



I tread where the twelve in their wayfaring trod ; 

I stand where they stood with the CHOSEN OF GOD, 

Where his blessing was heard and his lessons were taught, 
Where the blind were restored and the healing was wrought. 

O, here with his flock the sad Wanderer , "^^^ 

came, — 
These hills he toiled over in grief are 

the same, — 
The founts where he drank by the 

wayside still flow, ^^-.^ ^ 

And the same airs are blowing _. ^i*.'' * ^ 

which breathed on his brow! ^ ' *^ 



And throned on her hills sits Je- ii«^f~^- %>' 

rusalem yet, -^Im^- y^T . 

Bui with dust on her ^ ■ ^ 

forehead, and 

chains on her 

feet; 





"^ ^v-^ For the crown of 
her pride to the 
. „ mocker hath gone, 

And the holy Shechinah is dark 
where it shone. 

* ^ But wherefore this dream of the earthly 

abode 
Of Humanity clothed in the brightness 

of God? 
Were my spirit but turned from the 
There rested the shep- outward and dim, 

HERDS OF Judah. j^ ^q^]^ ^^^e, cveu now, on the presence 

of Him ! 

Not in clouds and in terrors, but gentle as when, 

In love and in meekness. He moved among men ; 

And the voice which breathed peace to the waves of the sea 

In the hush of my spirit would whisper to me ! 

And what if my feet may not tread where He stood. 
Nor my ears hear the dashing of Galilee's flood. 
Nor my eyes see the cross which He bowed him to bear, 
Nor my knees press Gethsemane's garden of prayer. 



Ezekicl. 197 



Yet, Loved of the Father, thy Spirit is near 
To the rneek, and the lowly, and penitent here ; 
And the voice of thy love is the same even now 
As at Bethany's tomb or on Olivet's brow. 

O, the outward hath gone ! — but in glory and power. 
The SPIRIT surviveth the things of an hour; 
Unchanged, undecaying, its Pentecost flame 
On the heart's secret altar is burning the same! 

EZEKIEL. 

CHAPTER XXXIII. 30-33. 

They hear thee not, O God ! nor see ; 

Beneath thy rod they mock at thee ; 

The princes of our ancient line 

Lie drunken with Assyrian wine ; 

The priests around thy altar speak 

The false words which their hearers seek ; 

And hymns which Chaldea's wanton maids 

Have sung in Dura's idol-shades 

Are with the Levites' chant ascending, 

With Zion's holiest anthems blending ! 

On Israel's bleeding bosom set. 

The heathen heel is crushing yet ; 

The towers upon our holy hill 

Echo Chaldean footsteps still. 

Our wasted shrines, — who weeps for theni.^ 

Who mourneth for Jerusalem } 

Who turneth from his gains away.? 

Whose knee with mine is bowed to pray } 

Who, leaving feast and purpling cup. 

Takes Zion's lamentation up ? 

A sad and thoughtful youth, I went 
With Israel's early banishment ; 
And where the sullen Chebar crept. 
The ritual of my fathers kept. 
The water for the trench I drew. 
The firstling of the flock I slew. 
And, standing at the altar's side, 
I shared the Levites' lingering pride. 
That still, amidst her mocking foes. 
The smoke of Zion's offering rose. 

In sudden whirlwind, cloud and flame. 
The Spirit of the Highest came ! 



198 Miscellaneous. 



Before mine eyes a vision passed, 
A glory terrible and vast ; 
With dreadful eyes of living things, 
And sounding sweep of angel wings. 
With circling light and sapphire throne. 
And flame-like form of One theieon, 
And voice of that dread Likeness sent 
Down from the crystal firmament ! 

The burden of a prophet's power 

Fell on me in that fearful hour ; 

From off unutterable woes 

The curtain of the future rose ; 

1 saw far down the coming time 

The fiery chastisement of crime ; 

With noise of mingling hosts, and jar 

Of falling towers and shouts of war, 

1 saw the nations rise and fall, 

Like nre-gleams on my tent's white wall. 

In dream and trance, I saw the slain 
Of Egypt heaped like harvest grain. 
I saw the walls of sea-born Tyre 
Swept over by the spoiler's fire ; 
And heard the low, expiring moan 
Of Edom on his rocky throne ; 
And, woe is me ! the wild lament 
From Zion's desolation sent ; 
And felt within my heart each blow 
Which laid her holy places low. 

In bends and sorrow, day by day, 

Before the pictured tile I lay ; 

And there, as in a mirror, saw 

The coming of Assyria's war, — 

lier swarthy lines of spearmen pass 

Like locusts through Bethhoron's grass ; 

I saw them draw their stormy hem 

Of battle round Jerusalem ; 

And, listening, heard the Hebrew vvail 

Blend with the victor-trump of Baal ! 

Who trembled at my warning word ? 
Who owned the prophet of the Lord ? 
How mocked the rude, — how scoffed the vile, 
How stung the Levites' scomful smile, 
As o'er my spirit, dark and slovv^, 
The shadow crept of Israel's woe 



Ezckid. 

As if the angel's mournful roll 
Had left its record on my soul, 
And traced in lines of darkness there 
The picture of its great despair ! 

Yet ever at the hour I feel 
My lips in prophecy unseal. 
Prince, priest, and Levite gather near, 
And Salem's daughters haste to hear, 
On Chebar's waste and alien shore. 
The harp of Judah swept once more. 
They listen, as in Babel's throng 
The Chaldeans to the dancer's song, 
Or wild sabbeka's nightly play, 
As careless and as vain as they. 



199 



And thus. O Prophet-bard of old, 
Hast thou thy tale of sorrow told ! 
The same which earth's unwelcome seers 
Have felt in all succeeding years. 
Sport of the changeful multitude, 
Nor calmly heard nor understood, 
Their song has seemed a trick of art, 
'J^heir warnings but the actor's part. 
With bonds, and scorn, and evil will, 
The world requites its prophets still. 

So was it when the Holy One 
The garments of the flesh put on ! 
Men followed where the Highest led 
For common gifts of daily bread. 
And gross of ear, of vision dim, 
Owned not the godlike power of him_. 
Vain as a dreamer's words to them 
His wail above Jerusalem, 
And meaningless the watch he kept 
Through which his weak disciples slept. 

Yet shrink not thou, whoe'er thou art, 
For God's great purpose set apart. 
Before whose far-discerning eyes. 
The Future as the Present lies ! 
Beyond a narrow-bounded age 
Stretches thy prophet-heritage. 
Through Heaven's dim spaces angel-trod. 
Through arches round the throne of God ! 
Thy audience, worlds ! — all Time to be 
The witness of the Truth in thee ! 



200 Miscellaneous. 



THE WIFE OF MANOAH TO HER HUSBAND. 

Against the sunset's glowing wall 
The city towers rise black and tall, 
Where Zorah, on its rocky height, 
Stands like an armed man in the light. 

Down Eshtaol's vales of ripened grain 
Falls like a cloud the night amain, 
And up the hillsides climbing slow 
The barley reapers homeward go. 

Look, dearest ! how our fair child's head 
The sunset light hath hallowed. 
Where at this olive's foot he lies, 
Uplooking to the tranquil skies. 

O, while beneath the fervent heat 
Thy sickle swept the bearded wheat, 
I've watched, with mingled joy and dread, 
Our child upon his grassy bed. 

Joy, which the mother feels alone 
Whose morning hope like mine had flown, 
When to her bosom, over-blessed, 
A dearer life than hers is pressed. 

Dread, for the future dark and still, 
Which shapes our dear one to its will ; 
Forever in his large calm eyes, 
I read a tale of sacrifice. — 

, The same foreboding awe I felt 
1 When at the altar's side we knelt. 

And he, who as a pilgrim came, 

Rose, winged and glorious, through the flame. 

\ 

I slept not, though the wild bees made 
A dreamlike murmuring in the shade, 
And on me the warm-fingered hours 
Pressed with the drowsy smell of flowers. 
I 

Before me, in a vision, rose 
The host of Israel's scornful foes, — 
Rank over rank, helm, shield, and spear, 
^Glittered in noon's hot atmosphere. 



The Wife of Manoah to Her Husband. 201 

I heard their boast, and bitter word. 
Their mockery of the Hebrew's Lord, 
I saw their hands his ark assail, 
Their feet profane his holy veil. 

No angel down the blue space spoke, 

No thunder from the still sky broke ; 

But in their midst, in power and awe. 

Like God's waked wrath, OUR CHILD I saw! 




I've watched, with mingled joy and dread, our child upon his 
grassy bed, 

A child no more ! — harsh-browed and strong, 
He towered a giant in the throng, 
And down his shoulders, broad and bare, 
Swept the black terror of his hair. 

He raised his arm ; he smote amain ; 
As round the reaper falls the grain, 
So the dark host around him fell, 
So sank the foes of Israel ! 

Again I looked. In sunlight shone 
The towers and domes of Askelon. 
Priest, warrior, slave, a mighty crowd, 
Within her idol temple bowed. 



Miscellaneous. 



Yet one knelt not ; stark, gaunt, and blind, 
His arms the massive pillars twined, — 
An eyeless captive, strong with hate. 
He stood there like an evil Fate, 

The red shrines smoked, — the trumpets pealed 
He stooped, — the giant columns reeled, — 
Reeled tower and fane, sank arch and wall, 
And the thick dust-cloud closed o'er all ! 

Above the shriek, the crash, the groan 
Of the fallen pride of Askelon, 
I heard, sheer down the echoing sky, 
A voice as of an angel cry, — 

The voice of him, who at our side 
Sat through the golden eventide, — 
Of him who, on thy altar's blaze, 
Rose fire-winged, with his song of praise. 

" Rejoice o'er Israel's broken chain, 
Gray mother of the mighty slain ! 
" Rejoice !" it cried, '* he vanquisheth ! 
The strong in life is strong in death ! 

" To him shall Zorah's daughters raise 
Through coming years their hymns of praise, 
And gray old men at evening tell 
Of all he wrought for Israel. 

" And they who sing and they who hear 
Alike shall hold thy memory dear, 
And pour their blessings on thy head, 

mother of the mighty dead !" 

It ceased ; and though a sound I heard 
As if great wings the still air stirred, 

1 only saw the barley sheaves 
And hills half hid by olive leaves. 

I bowed my face, in awe and fear. 

On the dear child who slumbered near. 

" With me, as with my only son, 

O God," I said, " THY will be done !" 



The Cities of the Plain. 203 



THE CITIES OF THE PLAIN. 

" Get ye up from the wrath of God's terrible day ! 
Ungirdled, unsandalled, arise and away ! 
'T is the vintage of blood, 't is the fulness of time, 
And vengeance shall gather the harvest of crime !" 

The warning was spoken ; the righteous had gone, 
And the proud ones of Sodom were feasting alone ; 
All gay was the banquet ; the revel was long, 
With the pouring of wine and the breathing of song. 

'T was an evening of beauty ; the air was perfume, 
The earth was all greenness, the trees were all bloom ; 
And softly the delicate viol was heard. 
Like the murmur of love or the notes of a bird. 

And beautiful maidens moved down in the dance, 
With the magic of motion and sunshine of glance ; 
And white arms wreathed lightly, and tresses fell free 
As the plumage of birds in some tropical tree. 

Where the shrines of foul idols were lighted on high, 
And wantonness tempted the lust of the eye ; 
Midst rites of obsceneness, strange, loathsome, abhorred, 
The blasphemer scoffed at the name of the Lord. 

Hark ! the growl of the thunder, — the quaking of earth ! 
Woe, woe to the worship, and woe to the mirth ! 
The black sky has opened, there 's flame in the air, — 
The red arm of vengeance is lifted and bare ! 

Then the shriek of the dying rose wild where the song 
And the low tone of love had been whispered along ; 
For the fierce flames went lightly o'er palace and bower. 
Like the red tongues of demons, to blast and devour ! 

Down, — down on the fallen the red ruin rained, 
And the reveller sank with his wine-cup undrained ; 
The foot of the dancer, the music's loved thrill, 
And the shout and the laughter grew suddenly still. 

The last throb of anguish was fearfully given ; 
The last eye glared forth in its madness on Heaven ! 
The last groan of horror rose wildly and vain, 
And death brooded over the pride of the Plain ! 




^.4 






\ 



,.^-^^. 



'^ 



,.*^w 




■M 



And beautiful maidens moved down in the dance. 



The Crticifixion. 205 



THE CRUCIFIXION. 

Sunlight upon Judaea's hills ! 

And on the waves of Galilee, — 
On Jordan's stream, and on the rills 

That feed the dead and sleeping sea ! 
IMost freshly from the green wood springs 
The light breeze on its scented wings ; 
And gayly quiver in the sun . 
The cedar tops of Lebanon ! 

A few more hours, — a change hath come ! 

The sky is dark without a cloud ! 
The shouts of wrath and joy are dumb, 

And proud knees unto earth are bowed. 
A change is on the hill of Death, 
The helmed watchers pant for breath, 
And turn with wild and maniac eyes 
From the dark scene of sacrifice ! 

That Sacrifice !— the death of Him, — 

The High and ever Holy One ! 
Well may the conscious Heaven grow dim^ 

And blacken the beholding Sun. 
The wonted light hath fled away, 
Night settles on the middle day, 
And earthquake from his caverned bed 
Is waking with a thrill of dread ! 

The dead are waking underneath ! 

Their prison door is rent away ! 
And, ghastly with the seal of death, 

They wander in the eye of day ! 
The temple of the Cherubim, 
The House of God is cold and dim ; 
A curse is on its trembling walls. 
Its mighty veil asunder falls ! 

Well may the cavern-depths of Earth 
Be shaken, and her mountains nod ; 
Well may the sheeted dead come forth 

To gaze upon a suffering God ! 
Well may the temple-shrine grow dim, 
And shadows veil the Cherubim, 
When He, the chosen one of Heaven, 
A sacrifice for guilt is given ! 



2 o6 Miscclla neons. 

And shall the sinful heart, alone, 

Behold unmoved the atoning hour, 
When Nature trembles on her throne, 
And Death resigns his iron power ? 
O, shall the heart — whose sinfulness 
Gave keenness to his sore distress, 
And added to his tears of blood — 
Refuse its trembling gratitude ! 



THE STAR OF BETHLEHEM. 

Where Time the measure of his hours 
By changeful bud and blossom keeps, 

And, like a young bride crowned with flowers, 
Fair Shiraz in her garden sleeps ; 

Where, to her poet's turban stone. 

The Spring her gift of flowers imparts. 

Less sweet than those his thoughts hav^e sown 
In the warm soil of Persian hearts : 

There sat the stranger, where the shade 
Of scattered date-trees thinly lay, 

While in the hot clear heaven delayed 
The long and still and weary day. 

Strange trees and fruits above him hung, 
Strange odors filled the sultry air, 

Strange birds upon the branches swung. 
Strange insect voices murmured there. 

And strange bright blossoms shone around. 
Turned sunward from the shadowy bowers, 

As if the Gheber's soul had found 
A fitting home in Iran's flowers. 

Whate'er he saw, whate'er he heard, 
Awakened feelings new and sad, — 

No Christian garb, nor Christian word, 

Nor church with Sabbath-bell chimes glad, 

But Moslem graves, with turban stones, 

And mosque-spires gleaming white, in view. 

And graybeard Mollahs in low tones 
Chanting their Koran service through, 



The Star of Bethlehem. 207 

The flowers which smiled on either hand, 
Like tempting fiends, were such as they 

Which once, o'er all that Eastern land, 
As gifts on demon altars la). 

As if the burning eye of Baal 

The servant of his Conqueror knew, 
From skies which knew no cloudy veil. 

The Sun's hot glances smote him through. 

" Ah me !" the lonely stranger said, 
" The hope which led my footsteps on. 

And light from heaven around them shed, 
O'er weary wave and waste, is gone ! 

" Where are the harvest fields all white, 

For Truth to thrust her sickle in ? 
Where flock the souls, like doves in flight, 

From the dark hiding-place of sin ? 

" A silent horror broods o'er all, — 

The burden of a hateful spell, — 
The very flowers around recall 

The hoary magi's rites of hell ! 

" And what am I, o'er such a land 

The banner of the Cross to bear? 
Dear Lord, uphold me with thy hand, 

Thy strength with human weakness share!" 

He ceased ; for at his very feet 

In mild rebuke a floweret smiled, — 
How thrilled his sinking heart to greet 

The Star-flower of the Virgin's child ! 

Sown by some wandering Frank, it drew 

Its life from alien air and earth, 
And told to Paynim sun and dew 

The story of the Saviour's birth. 

From scorching beams, in kindly mood. 
The Persian plants its beauty screened. 

And on its pagan sisterhood. 

In love, the Christian floweret leaned. 



2o8 Miscellaneous. 



With tears of joy the wanderer felt 
' The darkness of his long despair 
Before that hallowed symbol melt, 

Which God's dear love had nurtured there. 

From Nature's face, that simple flower 
The lines of sin and sadness swept; 

And Magian pile and Paynim bower 
In peace like that of Eden slept. 

Each Moslem tomb, and cypress old, 
Looked holy through the sunset air; 

And, angel-like, the Muezzin told 

From tower and mosque the hour of prayer. 

With cheerful steps, the morrow's dawn 
From Shiraz saw the stranger part ; 

The Star-flower of the Virgin-Born 
Still blooming in his hopeful heart ! 

HYMNS. 

FROM THE FRENCH OF LAMARTINE. 

One hymn more, O my lyre ! 

Praise to the God above, 

Of joy and life and love, 
Sweeping its strings of fire ! 

O, who the speed of bird and wind 

And sunbeam's glance will lend to me. 
That, soaring upward, I may find 

My resting-place and home in Thee ? — 
Thou, whom my soul, midst doubt and gloom, 

Adoreth with a fervent flame, — 
Mysterious spirit ! unto whom 

Pertain nor sign nor name ! 

Swiftly my lyre's soft murmurs go, 

Up from the cold and joyless earth. 
Back to the God who bade them flow, 

Whose moving spirit sent them forth, 
But as for me, O God ! for me. 

The lowly creature of thy will, 
Lingering and sad, I sigh to thee, 

An earth-bound pilgrim still ! 



Hymns. 209 

Was not my spirit born to shine 

Where yonder stars and suns are glowing ? 
To breathe with them the light divine 

From God's own holy altar flowing? 
To be, indeed, w^hate'er the soul 

In dreams had thirsted for so long, — 
A portion of Heaven's glorious whole 

Of loveliness and song ? 

O, watchers of the stars at night, 

Who breathe their fire, as we the air, — 
Suns, thunders, stars, and rays of light, 

O, say, is He, the Eternal, there? 
Bend there around his awful throne 

The seraph's glance, the angel's knee ? 
Or are thy inmost depths his own, 

O wild and mighty sea ? 

Thoughts of my soul, how swift ye go ! 

Swift as the eagle's glance of fire. 
Or arrows from the archer's bow. 

To the far aim of your desire ! 
Thought after thought, ye thronging rise, 

Like spring-doves from the startled wood, 
Bearing like them your sacrifice 

Of music unto God ! 

And shall these thoughts of joy and love 

Come back again no more to me ? — 
Returning like the Patriarch's dove 

Wing-weary from the eternal sea. 
To bear within my longing arms 

The promise-bough of kindlier skies, 
Plucked from the green, immortal palms 

Which shadow Paradise ? 



All-moving spirit ! — freely forth 

At thy command the strong wind goes 
Its errand to the passive earth, 

Nor art can stay, nor strength oppose, 
Until it folds its weary wing 

Once more within the hand divine ; 
So, weary from its wandering, 

My spirit turns to thine ! 



210 



Miscella neons. 



^ 



Child of the sea. the mountain stream, 

From its darl< caverns, hurries on. 
Ceaseless, by night and morning's beam 
By evening's star and noontide's sun, 
Until at last it sinks to rest, 

O'erwearied, in the waiting sea, % 

And moans upon its mother's breast, — >j 

So turns my soul to Thee ! '^ ^i^ 

^^ 
O Thou who bidd'st the torrent flow, Y 

Who lendest v^ings unto the wind, — ^ "^ '^ 

Mover of all things! 
where art thou ? 
O, whither shall I 
go to find 
The secret of thy 
resting-place ? 
Is there no holy ^^^^ 

wing for me, j^iSl^f O, wol-ld t were as 

That, soaring, I may |? ' ' ^- " ^/-«Jo ^^^ ^„„^,, 



search the space 
Of highest heaven 
for Thee ? 




WHIRLWIND BORNE. 



O, would I were as free to rise 

As leaves on autumn's whirlwind borne, — 
The arrowy light of sunset skies. 

Or sound, or ray, or star of morn, 
Which melts in heaven at twilight's close, 

Or aught which soars unchecked and free 
Through Earth and Heaven; that I might lose 

Myself in finding Thee ! 



When the breath divine is flowing, 
Zephyr-like o'er all things going. 
And, as the touch of viewless fingers, 
Softly on my soul it lingers. 
Open to a ])reath the lightest, 
Conscious of a touch the slightest, — 
As some calm, still lake, whereon 
Sinks the snowy-bosomed swan. 
And the glistening water-rings 
Circle round her moving wings ; 
When my upward gaze is turning 
Where the stars of heaven are burning 



Hymns. 

Through the deep and dark abyss, — 
Flowers of midnight's wilderness, 
Blowing with the evening's breath 
Sweetly in their Maker's path : 

When the breaking day is flushing 
All the east, and light is gushing 
Upward through the horizon's haze, 
Sheaf-like, with its thousand rays, 
Spreading, until all above 
Overflows with joy and love, 
And below, on earth's green bosom, 
All is changed to light and blossom : 

When my waking fancies over 
Forms of brightness flit and hover. 
Holy as the seraphs are, 
Who by Zion's fountains wear 
On their foreheads, white and broad, 
" Holiness unto the Lord !" 
When, inspired with rapture high, 
It would seem a single sigh 
Could a world of love create, — 
That my life could know no date, 
And my eager thoughts could fill 
Heaven and Earth, o'erflowing still !— 

Then, O Father ! thou alone, 

From the shadow of thy throne. 

To the sighing of my breast 

And its rapture answerest. 

All my thoughts, which, upward winging, 

Bathe where thy own light is springing,— 

All my yearnings to be free 

Are as echoes answering thee ! 

Seldom upon lips of mine, 

Father ! rests that name of thine, — 

Deep within my inmost breast, 
In the secret place of mind, 
Like an awful presence shrined, 

Doth the dread idea rest ! 

Hushed and holy dwells it there, — 

Prompter of the silent prayer, 

Lifting up my spirit's eye 

And Its faint, but earnest cry, 

From its dark and cold abode, 

Unto thee, my Guide and God ! 



Miscella neous. 



THE FExMALE MARTYR. 

[Mary G , aged 18, a " Sister of Charity," died in one of our Atlantic 

cities, during the prevalence of the Indian cholera, while in voluntary attendance 
upon the sick.] 

" Bring out your dead !" The midnight street 
Heard and gave back the hoarse, low call ; 

Harsh fell the tread of hasty feet, — 

Glanced through the dark the coarse white sheet, — 
Her coffin and her pall, 

" What — only one !" the brutal hackman said, 

As, with an oath, he spurned away the dead. 

How sunk the inmost hearts of all. 

As rolled that dead-cart slowly by, 
With creaking wheel and harsh hoof-fall ! 
The dying turned him to the wall. 

To hear it and to die ! — 
Onward it rolled ; while oft its driver stayed, 
And hoarsely clamored, " Ho !— bring out your dead." 

It paused beside the burial-place ; 

" Toss in your load !" — and it was done. — 
With quick hand and averted face. 
Hastily to the grave's embrace 

They cast them, one by one, — 
Stranger and friend, — the evil and the just, 
Together trodden in the churchyard dust ! 

And thou, young martyr ! — thou wast there, — 

No white-robed sisters round thee trod, — 
Nor holy hymn, nor funeral prayer 
Rose through the damp and noisome air. 

Giving thee to thy God ; 
Nor flower, nor cross, nor hallowed taper gave 
Grace to the dead, and beauty to the grave ! 

Yet, gentle sufferer ! there shall be. 

In every heart of kindly feeling, 
A rite as holy paid to thee 
As if beneath the convent-tree 

Thy sisterhood were kneeling. 
At vesper hours, like sorrowing angels, keeping 
Their tearful watch around thy place of sleeping. 



The Female Martyr. 



For thou wast one in whom the Hght 

Of Heaven's own love was kindled well. 
Enduring with a martyr's might, 
Through weary day and wakeful night, 

Far more than words may tell : 
Gentle, and meek, and lowly, and unknown,— 
Thy mercies measured by thy God alone ! 

Where manly hearts where failing, — where 
The throngful street grew foul with death, 

O high-souled martyr! — thou wast there, 

Inhaling, from the loathsome air, 
Poison with every breath. 

Yet shrinking not from offices of dread 

For the wrung dying, and the unconscious dead 

And, where the sickly taper shed 

Its light through vapors, damp, confined, 

Hushed as a seraph's fell thy tread, — 

A new Electra by the bed 
Of suffering human-kind ! 

Pointing the spirit, in its dark dismay, 

To that pure hope which fadeth not away. 



Innocent teacher of the high 

And holy mysteries of Heaven ! 
How turned to thee each glazing eye. 
In mute and awful sympathy. 

As thy low prayers were given ; 
And the o'er-hovering Spoiler wore, the while, 
An angel's features, — a deliverer's smile ! 

A blessed task ! — and worthy one 

Who, turning from the world, as thou, 
Before life's pathway had begun 
To leave its spring-time flower and sun, 

Had sealed her early vow ; 
Giving to God her beauty and her youth. 
Her pure affections and her guileless truth. 

Earth may not claim thee. Nothing here 
Could be for thee a meet reward ; 

Thine is a treasure far more dear, — 

Eye hath not seen it, nor the ear 
Of living mortal heard, — 

The joys prepared, — the promised bliss above,- 

The holy presence of Eternal Love I 



214 



MisceUaiicoiis. 



Sleep on in peace. The earth has not 
A nobler name than thine shall be. 

The deeds by martial manhood wrought, 

The lofty energies of thought, 
The fire of poesy, — 

These have but frail and fading honors ;- 

Shall Time unto Eternity consign. 



-thine 



Yea, and when thrones shall crumble down, 

And human pride and grandeur fall, — 
The herald's line of long renown, — 
The mitre and the kingly crown, — 

Perishing glories all ! 
The pure devotion of thy generous heart 
Shall live in Heaven, of which it was a part. 

THE FROST SPIRIT. 



He comes, — becomes, 
— the Frost Spirit 
comes ! You may 
trace his footstep 
now 
On the naked woods 
and the blasted 
nelds and the brown 
hill's withered 
brow. 
He has smitten the leaves of the 
gray old trees where their pleas- 
ant green came forth, 
And the winds, which follow wherever he 
goes, have shaken them down to earth. 




The Frost Spirit 

COMES. 



He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit 
comes ! — from the frozen Labrador, — 
From the icy bridge of the Northern seas, which the white bear 

wanders o'er, — 
Where the fisherman's sail is stiff with ice, and the luckless 

forms below 
In the sunless cold of the lingering night into marble statues 
grow ! 

He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes ! — on the rush- 
ing northern blast. 

And the dark Norwegian pines have bowed as his fearful 
breath went past. 



The Vaicdois Tear her. 215 



With AW uiiscorched wing- he has hurried on, where the fires of 

Hecla glow 
On the darkly beautiful sky above and the ancient ice below. 

He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes ! — and the quiet 

lake shall feel 
The torpid touch of his glazing breath, and ring to the skater's 

heel ; 
And the streams which danced on the broken rocks, or sang to 

the leaning grass. 
Shall bow again to their winter chain, and in mournful silence 

pass. 

He comes, — he comes, — the Frost Spirit comes ! — let us meet 

him as we may, 
And turn with the light of the parlor-fire his evil power away; 
And gather closer the circle round, when that firelight dances 

high. 
And laugh at the shriek of the baffled Fiend as his sounding 

wing goes by ! 

THE VAUDOIS TEACHER.'** 

" O LADY fair, these silks of mine are beautiful and rare, — 
The richest web of the Indian loom, which beauty's queen 

might wear ; 
And my pearls are pure as thy own fair neck, with whose radiant 

light they vie ; 
I have brought them with me a wearv way, — will my gentle lady 

buy?" 

And the lady smiled on the worn old man through the dark and 
clustering curls 

Which veiled her brow as she bent to \iew his silks and glitter- 
ing pearls ; 

And she placed their price in the old man's hand, and lightly 
turned away. 

But she paused at the wanderer's earnest call, — " rvly gentle 
lady, stay !" 

•' O lady fair, I have yet a gem. which a purer lustre flings. 
Than the diamond flash of the jewelled crown on the lofty 

brow 01 kings, — 
A wonderful pearl of exceeding price, whose virtue shall not 

decay, 
Whose light shall be as a spell to thee and a blessing on thy way !" 



The Vaudois Teacher. 



217 



The lady glanced at the mirroring steel where her form of grace 

was seen, 
Where her eye shone clear, and her dark locks waved their 

clasping pearls between , 
" Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth, thou traveller gray 

and old, — 
And name the price of thy precious gem, and my page shall 

count thy gold." 

The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow, as a small and 

meagre book, 
Unchased with gold or gem of cost, from his folding robe he 

tookl 
"Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price, may it prove as such to 

thee ! 
Nay — keep thy gold — I ask it not, for the word of God is free !" 

The hoary traveller went his way, but the gift he left behind 
Hath had its pure and perfect work on that high-born maiden's 

mind, 
And she hath turned from the pride of sin to the lowliness of 

truth. 
And given her human heart to God in its beautiful hour of 

youth ! 

And she hath left the gray old halls, where an evil faith had 

power. 
The courtly knights of her father's train, and the maidens of her 

bower ; 
And she hath gone to the Vaudois vales by lordly feet untrod, 
Where the poor and needy of earth are rich in the perfect love 

of God ! 



'^. 




'^im 



2 1 8 Mis eel la neott s . 



THE CALL OF THE CHRISTIAN. 

Not always as the whirlwind's rush 

On Horeb's mount of fear, 
Not always as the burning bush 

To Midian's shepherd seer, 
Noras the awful voice which came 

To Israel's prophet bards, 
Nor as the tongues of cloven flame, 

Nor gift of fearful words, — 

Not always thus, with outward sign 

Of fire or voice from Heaven, 
The message of a truth divine, 

The call of God is given ! 
Awaking in the human heart 

Love for the true and right, — 
Zeal for the Christian's better part. 

Strength for the Christian's fight. 

Nor unto manhood's heart alone 

The holy influence steals : 
Warm with a rapture not its own, 

The heart of woman feels ! 
As she who by Samaria's wall 

The Saviour's errand sought, — 
As those who with the fervent Paul 

And meek Aquila wrought : 

Or those meek ones whose martyrdom 

Rome's gathered grandeur saw : 
Or those who in their Alpine home 

Braved the Crusader's war, 
When the green Vaudois, trembling heard. 

Through all its vales of death. 
The martyr's song of triumph poured 

From Vk'oman's failing breath. 

And gently, by a thousand things 

Which o'er our spirits pass. 
Like breezes o'er the harp's fine strings, 

Or vapors o'er a glass. 
Leaving their token strange and new 

Of music or of shade, 
The summons to the right and true 

And merciful is made. 



My Soul and J. 219 



O, then, if gleams of truth and light 

Flash o'er thy waiting mind, 
Unfolding to thy mental sight 

The wants of human-kind ; 
If, brooding over human grief. 

The earnest wish is known 
To soothe and gladden with relief 

An anguish not thine own ; 

Though heralded with naught of fear 

Or outward sign or show ; 
Though only to the inward ear 

It whispers soft and low ; 
Though dropping, as the manna fell, 

Unseen, yet from above, 
Noiseless as dew-fall, heed it well. — 

Thy Father's call of love ! 



MY SOUL AND I. 

Stand still, my soul, in the silent dark 

1 would question thee. 
Alone in the shadow drear and stark 

With God and me ! 

What, my soul, was thy errand here ? 

Was it mirth or ease. 
Or heaping up dust from year to year? 

*• Nay, none of these !" 

Speak, soul, aright in His holy sight 

Whose eye looks still 
And steadily on thee through the night : 

" To do his will !" 

What hast thou done. O soul of mine, 

That thou tremblest so ? — • 
Hast thou wrought his task, and kept the line 

He bade thee go ? 

What, silent all ! — art sad of cheer ? 

Art fearful now ? 
When God seemed far and men were near. 

How brave wert thou ! 



220 



Miscellaneous. 



Aha ! thou tremblest ! — well I see 

Thou'rt craven grown. 
Is it so hard with God and me 

To stand alone ? — 

Summon thy sunshine bravery back, 

O wretched sprite ! 
Let me hear thy voice through this deep and black 

Abysmal night. 




blANU SI ILL, AlV bULL, IN THE SILENT DARK. 

What hast thou wrought for Right and Truth, 

For God and Man, 
From the golden hours of bright-eyed youth 

To life's mid span } 



Ah, soul of mine, thy tones I hear, 

But weak and low, 
Like far sad murmurs on my ear 

They come and go. 



Afy Soul and I. 



" I have wrestled stoutly with the Wrong, 

And borne the Right 
From beneath the footfall of the throng 

To life and light. 

" Wherever Freedom shivered a chain, 

God speed, quoth I ; 
To Error amidst her shouting train 

I gave the lie." 

Ah, soul of mine ! ah, soul of mine ! 

Thy deeds are well : 
W^ere they wrought for Truth's sake or for thine ? 

My soul, pray tell. 

" Of all the work my hand hath wTOught 

Beneath the sky, 
Save a place in kindly human thought, 

No gain have I." 

Go to, go to ! — for thy very self 

Thy deeds were done : 
Thou for fame, the miser for pelf, 

Your end is one ! 

And where art thou going, soul of mine ? 

Canst see the end } 
And whither this troubled life of thine 

Evermore doth tend ? 

What daunts thee now ? — what shakes thee so ? 

My sad soul say. 
" I see a cloud like a curtain low 

Hang o'er my way. 

" W' hither I go I cannot tell : 

That cloud hangs black, 
High as the heaven and deep as hell 

Across my track. 

" I see its shadow coldly enwrap 

The souls before. 
Sadly they enter it, step by step, 

To return no more. 



Miscellafieous. 



" They shrink, they shudder, dear God ! they kneel 

To thee in prayer. 
They shut their eyes on the cloud, but feel 

That it still is there. 



" In vain they turn from the dread Before 

To the Known and Gone ; 
For while gazing behind them evermore 

Their feet glide on. 




I SEE UPON SWEET PALE FACES A LIGHT 
BEGIN TO TREMBLE. 



"Yet, at times, I see up- 
on sweet pale faces 
A light begin 
To tremble, as if from 
holy places 
And shrines within. 

" And at times methinks 

their cold lips move 

With hymn and prayer. 

As if somewhat of awe, 

but more of love 

And hope were there. 

" I call on the souls who 
have left the light 
To reveal their lot ; 
I bend mine ear to that 
wall of night, 
And they answer not. 



" But I hear around me sighs of pain 

And the cry of fear. 
And a sound like the slow sad dropping of rain. 

Each drop a tear ! 

" Ah, the cloud is dark, and day by day 

I am moving thither : 
I must pass beneath it on my way — 

God pity me ! — Whither }" 



Ah, soul of mine ! so brave and wise 

In the life-storm loud. 
Fronting so calmly all human eyes 

In the sunlit crowd ! 



My Soul and I. 223 



Now standing apart with God and me 

Thou art weakness all. 
Gazing vainly after the things to be 

Through Death's dread wall. 

But never for this, never for this 

Was thy being lent ; 
For the craven's fear is but selfishness, 

Like his merriment. 

Folly and Fear are sisters twain : 

One closing her eyes, 
The other peopling the dark inane 

With spectral lies. 

Know well, my soul, God's hand controls 

Whate'er thou fearest ; 
Round him in calmest music rolls 

Whate'er thou hearest. 

What to thee is shadow, to him is day. 

And the end he knoweth, 
And not on a bUnd and aimless way 

The spirit goeth. 

Man sees no future, — a phantom show 

Is alone before him : 
Past Time is dead, and the grasses grow, 

And flowers bloom o'er him. 

Nothing before, nothing behind ; 

The steps of Faith 
Fall on the seeming void, and find 

The rock beneath. 

The Present, the Present is all thou hast 

For thy sure possessing ; 
Like the patriarch's angel hold it fast 

Till it gives its blessing. 

Why fear the night ? why shrink from Death, 

That phantom wan ? 
There is nothing in heaven or earth beneath 

Save God and man. 




^^"^^^^i^ 



Folly and Fear arb sisthrs twain. 



My Soul and I. 225 

Peopling the shadows we turn from Him 

And from one another ; 
All is spectral and vague and dim 

Save God and our brother ! 

Like warp and woof all destinies 

Are woven fast, 
Linked in sympathy like the keys 

Of an organ vast. 

Pluck one thread, and the web ye mar ; 

Break but one 
Of a thousand keys, and the paining jar 

Through all will run. 

O restless spirit ! wherefore strain 

Beyond thy sphere ? 
Heaven and hell, with their joy and pain, 

Are now and here. 

Back to thyself is measured well 

All thou hast given ; 
Thy neighbor's wrong is thy present hell. 

His bliss, thy heaven. 

And in life, in death, in dark and light, 

All are in God's care : 
Sound the black abyss, pierce the deep of night. 

And he is there ! 



All which is real now remaineth, 

And fadeth never : 
The hand which upholds it now sustaineth 

The soul forever. 

Leaning on him, make with reverent meekness 

His own thy will, 
And with strength from Him shall thy utter weakness 

Life's task fulfil ; 

And that cloud itself, which now before thee 

Lies dark in view, 
Shall with beams of light from the inner glory 

Be stricken through. 



226 Miscella neous. 



And like meadow mist through autumn's dawn 

Uprolling thin, 
Its thickest folds when about thee drawn 

Let sunlight in. 

Then of what is to be, and of what is done, 

Why queriest thou ? — 
The past and the time to be are one, 

And both are NOW ! 



TO A FRIEND, 

ON HER RETURN FROM EUROPE. 

How sniiled the land of France 
Under thy blue eye's glance, 

Light-hearted rover ! 
Old walls of chateaux gray, 
Towers of an early day. 
Which the Three Colors play 

Flauntingly over. 

Now midst the brilliant train 
Thronging the banks of Seine : 

Now midst the splendor 
Of the wild Alpine range. 
Waking with change on change 
Thoughts in thy young heart strange, 

Lovely, and tender. 

Vales, soft Elysian, 
Like those in the vision 

Of Mirza. when, dreaming, 
He saw the long hollow dell, 
Touched by the prophet's spell, 
Into an ocean swell 

With its isles teeming. 

Cliffs wrapped in snows of years, 
Splintering with icy spears 

Autumn's blue heaven : 
Loose rock and frozen slide. 
Hung on the mountain-side, 
Waiting their hour to glide 

Downward, storm-driven ! 



To a Fj'iend. 227 



Rhine-stream, by castle old. 
Baron's and robber's hold, 

Peacefully flowing ; 
Sweeping through vineyards green, 
Or where the cliffs are seen 
O'er the broad wave between 

Grim shadows throwing. 

Or, where St. Peter's dome 
Swells o'er eternal Rome, 

Vast, dim, and solemn, — 
Hymns ever chanting low, — 
Censers swung to and fro, — 
Sable stoles sweeping slow 

Cornice and column ! 

O, as from each and all 
Will there not voices call 

Evermore back again ? 
In the mind's gallery 
Wilt thou not always see 
Dim phantoms beckon thee 

O'er that old track again ? 

New forms thy presence haunt,— 
New voices softly chant, — 

New faces greet thee ! — 
Pilgrims from many a shrine 
Hallowed by poet's line. 
At memory's magic sign, 

Rising to meet thee. 

And when such visions come 
Unto thy olden home, 

Will they not waken 
Deep thoughts of Him whose hand 
Led thee o'er sea and land 
Back to the household band 

Whence thou wast taken ? 

While, at the sunset time, 
Swells the cathedral's chime. 

Yet, in thy dreaming. 
While to thy spirit's eye 
Yet the vast mountains lie 
Piled in the Switzer's sky, 

Icy and gleaming : 



2 28 Miscellaneous. 



Prompter of silent prayer. 
Be the wild picture there 

In the mind's chamber, 
And, through each coming day 
Him who, as staff and stay, 
Watched o'er thy wandering way, 

freshly remember. 

So, when the call shall be 
Soon or late unto thee. 

As to all given, 
Still may that picture live. 
All its fair forms survive. 
And to thy spirit give 

Gladness in Heaven ! 



THE ANGEL OF PATIENCE. 

A FREE PARAPHRASE OF THE GERMAN. 

To weary hearts, to mourning homes, 
God's meekest Angel gently comes : 
No power has he to banish pain. 
Or give us back our lost again , 
And yet in tenderest love, our dear 
And Heavenly Father sends him here. 

There 's quiet in that Angel's glance. 

There 's rest in his still countenance ! 

He mocks no grief with idle cheer. 

Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear 

But ills and woes he may not cure 

He kindly trains us to endure. 

Angel of Patience ! sent to calm 
Our feverish brows with cooling palm ; 
To lay the storms of hope and fear. 
And reconcile life's smile and tear ; 
The throbs of wounded pride to still. 
And make our own our Father's will ! 

O thou who mournest on thy way. 
With longings for the close of day ; 
He walks with thee, that Angel kind. 
And gently whispers, " Be resigned : 
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell 
The dear Lord ordereth all things well !" 



Follcn. 229 



FOLLEN. 

ON READING HIS ESSAY ON THE " FUTURE STATE. 

Friend of my soul ! — as with moist eye 
I look up from this page of thine, 

Is it a dream that thou art nigh. 
Thy mild face gazing into mine ? 

That presence seems before me now, 
A placid heaven of sweet moonrise. 

When, dew-like, on the earth below 
Descends the quiet of the skies. 

The calm brow through the parted hair, 
The gentle lips which knew^ no guile, 

Softening the blue eye's thoughtful care 
With the bland beauty of their smile. 

Ah me I — at times that last dread scene 
Of Frost and Fire and moaning Sea, 

Will cast its shade of doubt between 
The failing eyes of Faith and thee. 

Yet, lingering o'er thy charmed page, 
Where through the twilight air of earth, 

Alike enthusiast and sage. 

Prophet and bard, thou gazest forth ; 

Lifting the Future's solemn veil ; 

The reaching of a mortal hand 
To put aside the cold and pale 

Cloud-curtains of the Unseen Land ; 

In thoughts which answer to my own, 
In words which reach my inward ear, 

Like whispers from the void Unknown, 
I feel thy lixing presence here. 

The waves which lull thy body's rest, 
The dust thy pilgrim footsteps trod, 

Unwasted, through each change, attest 
The fixed economy of God. 

Shall these poor elements outlive 

The mind whose kingly will they wrought } 

Their gross unconsciousness sur\-ive 
Thy godlike energy of thought.^ 



230 Miscellaneous. 



Thou livest, Follen !— not in vain 
Hath thy fine spirit meekly borne 

The burthen of Life's cross of pain, 

And the thorned crown of suffering worn. 

O, while Life's solemn mysteiy glooms 
Around us like a dungeon's wall, — 

Silent earth's pale and crowded tombs, 
Silent the heaven which bends o'er all !— 

While day by day our loved ones glide 
In spectral silence, hushed and lone, 

To the cold shadows which divide 
The living from the dread Unknown ; 

While even on the closing eye, 

And on the lip which moves in vain, 

The seals of that stern mystery 
Their undiscovered trust retain ; — 



And only midst the gloom of death, 

Its mournful doubts and haunting fears, 

Two pale, sweet angels, Hope and Faith, 
Smile dimly on us through their tears ; 

'T is something to a heart like mine 

To think of thee as living yet ; 
To feel that such a light as thine 

Could not in utter darkness set. 

Less dreary seems the untried way 

Since thou hast left thy footprints there. 

And beams of mournful beauty play 
Round the sad Angel's sable hair. 

Oh !— at this hour when half the sky 
Is glorious with its evening light, 

And fair broad fields of summer lie 
Hung o'er with greenness in my sight ; 

While through these elm-boughs wet with rain 
The sunset's golden walls are seen. 

With clover-bloom and yellow grain 

And wood-draped hill and stream between ; 



Follen. 



231 



I long to know if scenes like this 
Are hidden from an angel's eyes ; 

If earth's familiar loveliness 

Haunts not th\- heaven's serener skies. 




r3:;. 



m 




\ 



4 The sunset's golden walls are 
seen, with clover-bloom and 
yellow grain. 



n 



For sweetly here upon thee grew 
The lesson which that beauty gave, 

The ideal of the Pure and True 
In earth and sky and gliding wave. 



232 Miscella neons. 



And it may be that all which lends 

The soul an upward impulse here, 
With a diviner beauty blends, 

And greets us in a holier sphere. 

Through groves where blighting never fell 
The humbler flowers of earth may twine ; 

And simple draughts from childhood's well 
Blend with the angel-tasted wine. 

But be the pr}dng vision veiled, 

And let the seeking lips be dumb, — 

Where even seraph eyes have failed 
Shall mortal blindness seek to come } 

We only know that thou hast gone, 

And that the same returnless tide 
Which bore thee from us still glides on, 

And we who mourn thee with it glide. 

On all thou lookest we shall look, 

And to our gaze erelong shall turn 
That page of God's mysterious book 

We so much wish, yet dread to learn. 

With Him, before whose awful power 
Thy spirit bent its trembling knee ; — 

Who, in the silent greeting flower. 
And forest leaf, looked out on thee, — 

We leave thee, with a trust serene. 

Which Time, nor Change, nor Death can move, 
While with thy childlike faith we lean 

On Him whose dearest name is Love ! 



TO THE REFORMERS OF ENGLAND. 

God bless ye, brothers !— in the fight 
Ye 're w^aging now, ye cannot fail, 

For better is your sense of right 
Than kingcraft's triple mail. 

Than tyrant's law% or bigot's ban. 
More mighty is your simplest word ; 

The free heart of an honest man 
Than crosier or the sword. 



To the Reformers of England. 233 

Go, — let your bloated Church rehearse 

The lesson it has learned so well ; 
It moves not with its prayer or curse 

The gates of heaven or hell. 

Let the State scaffold rise again, — 
Did Freedom die when Russell died ? 

Forget ye how the blood of Vane 
From earth's green bosom cried ? 

The great hearts of your olden time 
Are beating with you, full and strong 

All holy memories and sublime 
And glorious round ye throng. 

The bluff, bold men of Runnymede 

Are with ye still in times like these, 
The shades of England's mighty dead, 

Your cloud of witnesses I 

The truths ye urge are borne abroad 

By every wind and every tide ; 
The voice of Nature and of God 

Speaks out upon your side. 

The weapons which your hands have found 
Are those which Heaven itself has wrought. 

Light, Truth, and Love ; — your battleground 
The free, broad field of Thought. 

No partial, selfish purpose breaks 

The simple beauty of your plan, 
Nor lie from throne or altar shakes 

Your steady faith in man. 

The languid pulse of England starts 

And bounds beneath your words of power, 

The beating of her million hearts 
Is with you at this hour ! 

O ye who, with undoubting eyes, 

Through present cloud and gathering storm. 
Behold the span of Freedom's skies, 

And sunshine soft and warm, — 



234 Miscellaneous. 



Press bravely onward ! — not in vain 
Your generous trust in liuman-kind ; 

The good which bloodshed could not gain 
Your peaceful zeal shall find. 

Press on !^the triumph shall be won 
Of common rights and equal laws. 

The glorious dream of Harrington, 
And Sidney's good old cause. 

Blessing the cotter and the crown, 
Sweetening worn Labor's bitter cup ; 

And, plucking not the highest down, 
Lifting the lowest up. 

Press on ! — and we who may not share 
The toil or glory of your fight 

May ask, at least, in earnest prayer, 
God's blessing on the right ! 



THE QUAKER OF THE OLDEN TLME. 

The Quaker of the olden time ! — 

How calm and firm and true, 
Unspotted by its wrong and crime, 

He walked the dark earth through. 
The lust of power, the love of gain, 

The thousand lures of sin 
Around him, had no power to stain 

The purity within. 

With that deep insight which detects 

All great things in the small, 
And knows how each man's life affects 

The spiritual life of all. 
He walked by faith and not by sight. 

By love and not by law ; 
The presence of the wrong or right 

He rather felt than saw. 

He felt that wrong with wrong partakes, 

That nothing stands alone, 
That whoso gives the motive, makes 

His brother's sin his own. 



The Reformer. 235 



And, pausing not for doubtful choice 

Of evils great or small, 
He listened to that inward voice 

Which called away from all. 

O Spirit of that early day, 

So pure and strong and true, 
Be with us in the narrow way 

Our faithful fathers knew. 
Give strength the evil to forsake. 

The cross of Truth to bear, 
And love and reverent fear to make 

Our daily lives a prayer ! 



THE REFORMER. 

All grim and soiled and brown with tan, 

I saw a Strong One, in his wrath, 
Smiting the godless shrines of man 
Along his path. 

The Church, beneath her trembling dome, 

Essayed in vain her ghostly charm : 
Wealth shook within his gilded home 
With strange alarm. 

Fraud from his secret chambers fled 

Before the sunlight bursting in : 

Sloth drew her pillow o'er her head 

To drown the din. 

" Spare," Art implored, " yon holy pile ; 

That grand, old, time-worn turret spare 
Meek Reverence, kneeling in the aisle, 
Cried out, " Forbear !" 

Gray-bearded Use, who, deaf and blind, 
Groped for his old accustomed stone, 
Leaned on his staff, and wept to find 
His seat o'erthrown. 

Young Romance raised his dreamy eyes, 

O'erhung with paly locks of gold, — 
"Why smite," he asked in sad surprise, 
" The fair, the old }" 



236 Miscellaneous. 



Yet louder rang the Strong One's stroke, 

Yet nearer flashed his axe's gleam ; 
Shuddering and sick of heart I woke, 
As from a dream. 

I looked : aside the dust-cloud rolled, — 
The Waster seemed the Builder too ; 
Up springing from the ruined Old 
I saw the New. 

'T was but the ruin of the bad, — 

The wasting of the wrong and ill ; 
Whate'er of good the old time had 
Was living still. 

Calm grew the brows of him I feared ; 

The frown which awed me passed away, 
And left behind a smile which cheered 
Like breaking day. 

The grain grew green on battle-plains, 

O'er swarded war-mounds grazed the cow ; 
The slave stood forging from his chains 
The spade and plough. 

Where frowned the fort, pavilions gay 

And cottage windows, flower-entwined, 
Looked out upon the peaceful bay 
And hills behind. 

Through vine-wreathed cups with wine once red. 

The lights on brimming crystal fell. 
Drawn, sparkling, from the rivulet head 
And mossy well. 

Through prison walls, like Heaven-sent hope. 
Fresh breezes blew, and sunbeams strayed, 
And with the idle gallows-rope 
The young child played. 

Where the doomed victim in his cell 
Had counted o'er the weary hours. 
Glad school-girls, answering to the bell, 
Came crowned with flowers. 





Glad school-gikls, answering to the bell, came crowned with flowers. 



2;^S Miscfllaiieoiis. 



Grown wiser for the lesson given, 

I fear no longer, for I know 
That, where the share is deepest driven. 
The best fruits grow. 

The outworn rite, the old ab'ise, 

The pious fraud transparent grown, 
The good held captive in the use 
Of wrong alone, — 

These wait their doom, fi'om that great law 
Which makes the past time serve to-day ; 
And fresher life the world shall draw 
From their decay. 

O, backward-looking son of time ! 
The new is old, the old is new, 
The cycle of a change sublime 
Still sweeping through. 

So wisely taught the Indian seer ; 

Destroying Seva, forming Brahm, 
Who wake by turns Earth's love and fear, 
Are one, the same. 



As idly as, in that old day 

Thou mournest, did thy sires repine ; 
So, in his time, thy child grown gray 
Shall sigh for thine. 

Yet not the less for them or thou ; 

Th' eternal step of Progress beats 
To that great anthem, calm and slow. 
Which God repeats. 

Take heart ! — the Waster builds again. 

A charmed life old Goodness hath ; 
The tares may perish, — but the grain 
Is not for death. 



God works in all things ; all obey 

His hrst propulsion from the night : 
Ho, wake and watch ! — the world is gray 
With morning light ! 



The Prisoner for Debt. 239 



THE PRISONER FOR DEBT. 

Look on him ! — through his dungeon grate 

Feebly and cold, the morning light 
Comes stealing round him, dim and late, 

As if it loathed the sight. 
Reclining on his strawy bed, 
His hand upholds his drooping head, — 
His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard. 
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard ; 
And o'er his bony fingers flow 
His long, dishevelled locks of snow. 

No grateful fire before him glows. 
And yet the winter's breath is chill ; 

And o'er his half-clad person goes 
The frequent ague thrill ! 

Silent, save ever and anon, 

A sound, half murmur and half groan, 

Forces apart the painful grip 

Of the old sufferer's bearded lip ; 

O sad and crushing is the fate 

Of old age chained and desolate ! 

Just God ! why lies that old man there ? 

A murderer shares his prison bed, 
Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair, 

Gleam on him, fierce and red ; 
And the rude oath and heartless jeer 
Fall ever on his loathing ear, 
And, or in wakefulness or sleep. 
Nerve, flesh, and pulses thrill and creep 
Whene'er that ruffian's tossing limb. 
Crimson with murder, touches him ! 

What has the gray-haired prisoner done? 

Has murder stained his hands with gore .-* 
Not so ; his crime 's a fouler one ; 

God made the old man poor ! 
For this he shares a felon's cell, — 
The fittest earthly type of hell ! 
For this, the boon for which he poured 
His young blood on the invader's sword. 
And counted light the fearful cost, — 
His blood-erained libertv is lost ! 



240 



Miscellaneous. 



And so, for such a place of rest, 

Old prisoner, dropped thy blood as rain 
On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest. 

And Saratoga's plain ? 
Look forth, thou man of many scars. 
Through thy dim dungeon's iron bars ; 
It must be joy, in sooth, to see 
Yon monument upreared to thee, — 
Piled granite and a prison cell, — 
The land repays thy service well ! 

Go, ring the bells and fire the guns, 
And fling the starry banner out ; 
Shout " Freedom !" till your lisping ones 

Give back their cradle-shout ; 
Let boastful eloquence declaim 
Of honor, liberty, and fame ; 
Still let the poet's strain be heard, 
With glory for each second word, 
And everything with breath agree 
To praise " our glorious liberty !" 

But when the patron cannon jars 
That prison's cold and gloomy wall. 

And through its grates the stripes and star? 
Rise on the wind, and fall, — 

Think ye that prisoner's aged ear 

Rejoices in the general cheer? 

Think ye his dim and failing eye 

Is kindled at your pageantry? 

Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb. 

What is your carnival to him ? 

Down with the LAW that binds him thus ! 

Unworthy freemen, let it find 
No refuge from the withering curse 

Of God and human kind ! 
Open the prison's living lomb. 
And usher from its brooding gloom 
The victims of your savage code 
To the free sun and air of God ; 
No longer dare as crime to brand 
The chastening of the Almighty's hand. 



Lines. 241 

LINES, 

WRITTEN ON READING PAMPHLETS PUBLISHED BY CLERGY- 
MEN AGAINST THE ABOLITION OF THE GALLOWS. 

I. 

The suns of eighteen centuries have shone 

Since the Redeemer wahvcd with man, and made 

The fisher's boat, the cavern's floor of stone. 
And mountain moss, a pillow for his head ; 

And He, who wandered with the peasant Jew, 
And broke with publicans the bread of shame, 
And drank, with blessings in his Father's name, 

The water which Samaria's outcast drew, 

Hath now his temples upon every shore, 

Altar and shrine and priest, — and incense dim 
Evermore rising, with low prayer and hymn, 

Froni lips which press the temple's marble floor. 

Or kiss the gilded sign of the dread Cross He bore. 



Yet as of old, when, meekly "doing good," 
He fed a blind and selfish multitude. 
And even the poor companions of his lot 
With their dim earthly vision knew him not. 

How ill are his high teachings understood ! 
Where He hath spoken Liberty, the priest 

At his own altar binds the chain anew ; 
Where He hath bidden to Life's equal feast, 

The starving many wait upon the few ; 
Where He hath spoken Peace, his name hath been 
The loudest war-cry of contending men ; 
Priests, pale with vigils, in his name have blessed 
The unsheathed sword, and laid the spear in rest, 
Wet the war-banner with their sacred wine, 
And crossed its blazon with the holy sign ; 
Yea, in his name who bade the erring live, 
And daily taught his lesson, — to forgive ! — 

Twisted the cord and edged the murderous steel ; 
And, with his words of mercy on their lips, 
Hung gloating o'er the pincer's burning grips. 

And the grim horror of the straining wheel ; 
Fed the slow flame which gnawed the victim's limb 



242 Miscellaneous. 



Who saw before his searing eyeballs swim 

The image of their Christ in cruel zeal, 
Through the black torment-smoke, held mockingly to him ! 



III. 

The blood which mingled with the desert sand, 

And beaded with its red and ghastly dew 
The vines and olives of the Holy Land, — 

The shrieking curses of the hunted Jew, — 
The white-sown bones of heretics, where'er 
They sank beneath the Crusade's holy spear, — 
Goa's dark dungeons, — Malta's seawashed cell, 

Where with the hymns the ghostly fathers sung 

Mingled the groans by subtle torture wrung, 
Heaven's anthem blending with the shriek of hell ! 
The midnight of Bartholomew, — the stake 

Of Smithheld, and that thrice-accursed flame 
Which Calvin kindled by Geneva's lake, — 
New England's scaffold, and the priestly sneer 
Which mocked its victims in that hour of fear, 

When guilt itself a human tear might claim, — 
Bear witness, O thou wronged and merciful One ! 
That Earth's most hateful crimes have in thy name been done. 

IV. 

Thank God ! that I have lived to see the time 

When the great truth begins at last to find 

An utterance from the deep heart of mankind. 
Earnest and clear, that ALL Revenge is Crime I 
That man is holier than a creed, — that all 

Restraint upon him must consult his good, 
Hope's sunshine linger on his prison wall. 

And Love look in upon his solitude. 
Tlie beautiful lesson which our Saviour taught 
Through long, dark centuries its way hath wrought 
Lito the common mind and popular thought ; 
And words, to which by Galilee's lake shore 
The humble fishers listened with hushed oar, 
Have found an echo in the general heart. 
And of the public faith become a living part. 

V. 



Who shall arrest this tendency ? — Bring back 
The cells of Venice and the bigot's rack } 



The Human Sac?'ifice. 243 

Harden the softening human heart again 
To cold indifference to a brother's pain ? 
Ye most unhappy men ! — who, turned away 
From the mild sunshine of the Gospel day, 

Grope in the shadows of Man's twilight time, 
What mean ye, that with ghoul-like zest ye brood, 
O'er those foul altars streaming with warm blood, 

Permitted in another age and clime ? 
Why cite that law with which the bigot Jew 
Rebuked the Pagan's mercy, when he knew 
No evil in the Just One ? — Wherefore turn 
To the dark cruel past ?— Can ye not learn 
From the pure Teacher's life, how mildly free 
Is the great Gospel of Humanity ? 
The Flamen's knife is bloodless, and no more 
Mexitli's altars soak with human gore, 
No more the ghastly sacrifices smoke 
Through the green arches of the Druid's oak ; 
And ye of milder faith, with your high claim 
Of prophet-utterance in the Holiest name, 
Will ye become the Druids of our time ! 

Set up your scaffold-altars in our land, 
And, consecrators of Law's darkest crime. 

Urge to its loathsome work the hangman's hand ? 
Beware, — lest human nature, roused al last. 
From its peeled shoulder your encumbrance cast, 

And, sick to loathing of your cry for blood. 
Rank ye with those who led their victims round 
The Celt's red altar and the Indian's mound. 

Abhorred of Earth and Heaven,— a pagan brotherhood ! 

THE HUMAN SACRIFICE. 



Far from his close and noisome cell, 

By grassy lane and sunny stream, 
Blown clover field and strawberry dell, 
And green and meadow freshness, fell 

The footsteps of his dream. 
Again from careless feet the dew 

Of summer's misty morn he shook; 
Again with merry heart he threw 

His light line in the rippling brook. 
Back crowded all his school-day joys, — 

He urged the ball and quoit again, 
And heard the shout of laughing boys 

Come ringing down the walnut glen. 



244 



Mtscellaneoui 




Oi^. 



-^ 



/'f • " ->• 



Far from his close and noisome cell, by grassy lane and sunny stream. 

Again he felt the western breeze, 

With scent of flowers and crisping' hay ; 

And down again through wind-stirred trees 
He saw the quivering sunhght play. 

An angel in home's vine-hung door, 

He saw his sister smile once more ; 

Once more the truant's brown-locked head 

Upon his mother's knees was laid, 

And sweetly lulled to slumber there, 

With evening's holy hymn and prayer ! 



II. 



He woke. At once on heart and brain 
The present Terror rushed again, — 
Clanked on his limbs the felon's chain ! 
He woke, to hear the church-tower tell 
Time's footfall on the conscious bell, 
And, shuddering, feel that clanging din 
His life' ^ LAST HOUR had ushered in ; 



The Human Sacrifice. 245 



To see within his prison-yard, 
Through the small window, iron barred, 
The gallows shadow rising dim 
Between the sunrise heaven and him, — 
A horror in God's blessed air, — 

A blackness in his morning light, — 
Like some foul devil-altar there 

Built up by demon hands at night. 

And, maddened by that evil sight. 
Dark, horrible, confused, and strange, 
A chaos of wild, weltering change, 
All power of check and guidance gone. 
Dizzy and blind, his mind swept on. 
In vain he strove to breathe a ])rayer, 

In vain he turned the Holy Book, 
He only heard the gallow^s-stair 

Creak as the wind its timbers shook. 
No dream for him of sin forgiven. 

While still that baleful spectre stood, 

With its hoarse murmur, '' Blood for Blood! 
Between him and the pitying Heaven ! 

III. 

Low^ on his dungeon floor he knelt. 

And smote his breast, and on his chain, 

Whose iron clasp he always felt, 
His hot tears fell like rain ; 

And near him, with the cold, calm look 
And tone of one w^hose formal part, 
Unw^armed, unsoftened of the heart. 

Is measured out by rule and book. 

With placid lip and tranquil blood. 

The hangman's ghostly ally stood. 

Blessing with solemn text and word 

The gallows-drop and strangling cord ; 

Lending the sacred Gospel's awe 

And sanction to the crime of Law. 

IV. 

He saw the victim's tortured brow% — 
The sweat of anguish starting there, — 

The record of a nameless woe 
In the dim eye's imploring stare. 
Seen hideous through the long, damp hair, — 

Fingers of ghastly skin and bone 

Workincr and writhinsf on the stone ! — 



246 Miscellaneous. 



And heard, by mortal terror wrung 
From heaving breast and stiffened tongue, 
The choking sob and low hoarse prayer ; 
As o'er his half-crazed fancy came 
A vision of the eternal flame, — 
Its smoking cloud of agonies, — 
Its demon-worm that never dies, — 
The everlasting rise and fall 
Of fire-waves round the infernal wall ; 
While high above that dark red flood, 
Black, giant-like, the gallows stood ; 
Two busy fiends attending there : 
One with cold mocking rite and prayer. 
The other with impatient grasp, 
Tightening the death-rope's strangling clasp. 



The unfelt rite at length was done, — 

The prayer unheard at length was said,- 
An hour had passed : — the noonday sun 

Smote on the features of the dead ! 
And he who stood the doomed beside, 
Calm gauger of the swelling tide 
Of mortal agony and fear. 
Heeding with curious eye and ear 
Whate'er revealed the keen excess 
Of man's extremest wretchedness : 
And who in that dark anguish saw 

An earnest of the victim's- fate, 
The vengeful terrors of God's law. 

The kindlings of Eternal hate, — 
The first drops of that fiery rain 
Which beats the dark red realm of pain, 
Did he uplift his earnest cries 

Against the crime of Law, which gave 

His brother to that fearful grave. 
Whereon Hope's moonlight never lies. 

And Faith's white blossoms never wave 
To the soft breath of Memory's sighs ; — 
Which sent a spirit marred and stained. 
By fiends of sin possessed, profaned, 
In madness and in blindness stark. 
Into the silent, unknown dark ? 
No, — from the wild and shrinking dread 
With which he saw the victim led 

Beneath the dark veil which divides 



The Human. Sacrifice. 247 

Ever the living from the dead, 

And Nature's solemn secret hides, 
The man of prayer can only draw 
New reasons for his bloody law ; 
New faith in staying Murder's hand 
By murder at that Law's command ; 
New reverence for the gallows-rope, 
As human nature's latest hope ; 
Last relic of the good old time, 
When Power found license for its crime, 
And held a writhing world in check 
By that fell cord about its neck ; 
Stifled Sedition's rising shout. 
Choked the young breath of Freedom out, 
And timely checked the words which sprung 
From Heresy's forbidden tongue ; 
While in its noose of terror bound, 
The Church its cherished union found. 
Conforming, on the Moslem plan, 
The motley-colored mind of man. 
Not by the Koran and the Sword, 
But by the Bible and the Cord ! 



VI. 



O Thou ! at whose rebuke the grave 
Back to warm life its sleeper gave. 
Beneath whose sad and tearful glance 
The cold and changed countenance 
Broke the still horror of its trance, 
And, waking, saw with joy above, 
A brother's face of tenderest love ; 
Thou, unto whom the blind and lame, 
The sorrowing and the sin-sick came, 
And from thy very garment's hem 
Drew life and healing unto them. 
The burden of thy holy faith 
Was love and life, not hate and death, 
Man's demon ministers of pain, 

The fiends of his revenge were sent 

From thy pure Gospel's element 
To their dark home again. 
Thy name is Love ! What, then, is he. 

Who in that name the gallows rears, 
An awful altar built to thee, 

With sacrifice of blood and tears ? 



248 Miscellaneous. 



O, once again tliy healing lay 

On the blind eyes which knew thee not. 
And let the light of thy pure day 

Melt in upon his darkened thought. 
Soften his hard, cold heart, and show 

The power which in forbearance lies, 
And let him feel that mercy now 

Is better than old sacrifice ! 



VII. 



As on the White Sea's charmed shore, 

The Parsee sees his holy hill 
With dunnest smoke-clouds curtained o'er. 
Yet knows beneath them, evermore. 

The low, pale fire is quivering still ; 
So, underneath its clouds of sin. 

The heart of man retaineth yet 
Gleams of its holy origin ; 

And half-quenched stars that never set, 
Dim colors of its faded bow. 

And early beauty, linger there. 
And o'er its wasted desert blow 

Faint breathings of its morning air, 
O, never yet upon the scroll 
Of the sin-stained, but priceless soul, 

Hath Heaven inscribed "Despair!" 
Cast not the clouded gem away, 
Quench not the dim but living ray, — 

My i)rother man. Beware ! 
With that deep voice which from the skies 
Forbade the Patriarch's sacrifice, 

God's angel cries, Forbear! 



DEMOCRACY 



All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to 
them. — Ulatt/iew vii. 12. 



Bearer of Freedom's holy light, 
Breaker of Slavery's chain and rod. 

The foe of all which pains the light. 
Or wounds the generous ear of God ! 



Democracy. 249 



Beautiful yet thy temples rise, 

Though there profanini!;- gifts are thrown : 
And fires unkindled of the skies 

Are glaring round thy altar-stone. 

Still sacred, — though thy name be breathed 
By those whose hearts thy truth deride ; 

And garlands, plucked from thee, are wreathed 
Around the haughty brows of Pride. 

O, ideal of my boyhood's time ! 

The faith in which my father stood. 
Even when the sons of Lust and Crime 

Had stained thy peaceful courts with blood ! 

Still to those courts my footsteps turn, 

For through the mists which darken there, 

I see the flame of Freedom burn, — 
The Kebla of the jiatriot's prayer ! 

The generous feeling, pure and warm, 
Which owns the rights of all divine, — 

The pitying heart, — the helping arm, — 
The prompt self-sacrifice, — are thine. 

Beneath thy broad, impartial eye. 

How fade the lines of caste and birth ! 

How equal in their suffering lie 
The groaning multitudes of earth ! 

Still to a stricken brother true. 

Whatever clime hath nurtured him ; 

As stooped to heal the wounded Jew 
The worshipper of Gerizim. 

By misery unrepelled, unawed 

liy i)omp or power, thou seest a Man 

In prince or peasant, — slave or lord, — 
Pale priest, or swarthy artisan. 

Through all disguise, form, place, or name, 
Beneath the Haunting robes of sin, 

Through poverty and squalid shame, 
Thou lookest on the man within. 



250 Miscellaneous. 



On man, as man, retaining yet, 

Howe'er debased, and soiled, and dim 

The crown upon his forehead set, — 
The immortal gift of God to him. 



And there is reverence in thy look ; 

Yox that frail form which mortals wear 
The Spirit of the Holiest took. 

And veiled his perfect brightness there. 



Not from the shallow babbling fount 

Of vain philosophy thou art ; 
He who of old on Syria's mount 

Thrilled, warmed, by turns, the listener's heart. 



In holy words which cannot die, 

In thoughts which angels leaned to know 
Troclaimed thy message from on high, — 

Thy mission to a world of woe. 



That voice's echo hath not died ! 

From the blue lake of Galilee, 
And Tabor's lonely mountain-side. 

It calls a struggling w^orld to thee. 



Thy name and watchword o'er this land 
I hear in every breeze that stirs, 

And round a thousand altars stand 
Thy banded party w^orshippers. 



Not to these altars of a day. 
At party's call, my gift \ brin< 

But on thy olden shrine I lay 
A freeman's dearest offerinsf : 



The voiceless utterance of his will, — 
His pledge to Freedom and to Truth,, 

That manhood's heart remembers still 
The homage of his generous youth. 

Election Day, 1843. 



Randolph of Roanoke. 25 






F_i-^ V >.., 


^- ./% 1 


;--^^r- '^ 



RANDOLPH OF ROANOKE. 

O Mother Earth ! upon thy lap 

Thy weary ones receiving, 
And o'er them, silent as a dream, 

Thy grassy mantle weaving. 
Fold softly in thy long embrace 

That heart so'worn and broken, 
And cool its pulse of fire beneath 

Thy shadows old and oaken. 

Shut out from him the bitter word 

And serpent hiss of scorning ; 
Nor let the storms of yesterday 

Disturb his quiet morning. 
Breathe over him forgetfulness 

Of all save deeds of kindness, 
And, save to smiles of grateful eyes. 

Press down his lids in blindness. 

There, where with living ear and eye 

He heard Potomac's flowing, 
And, through his tall ancestral trees, 

Saw autumn's sunset glowing, 
He sleeps,— still looking to the west. 

Beneath the dark wood shadow, 
As if he still would see the sun 

Sink down on wave and meadow. 



252 Miscellaneous. 



Bard, Sage, and Tribune ! — in himself 

All moods of mind contrasting, — 
The tenderest wail of human woe. 

The scorn-like lightning blasting ; 
The pathos which from rival eyes 

Unwilling tears could summon, 
The stinging taunt, the fiery burst 

Of hatred scarcely human ! 



Mirth, sparkling like a diamond shower, 

From lips of life-long sadness ; 
Clear picturings of majestic thought 

Upon a ground of madness ; 
And over all Romance and Song 

A classic beauty throwing, 
And laurelled Clio at his side 

Her storied pages showing. 

All parties feared him : each in turn 

Beheld its schemes disjointed, 
As right or left his fatal glance 

And spectral linger pointed. 
Sworn foe of Cant, he smote it down 

With trenchant wit unsparing, 
And, mocking, rent with ruthless hand 

The robe Pretence was wearing. 

Too honest or too proud to feign 

A love he never cherished. 
Beyond Virginia's border line 

His patriotism perished. 
While others hailed in distant skies 

Our eagle's dusky pinion, 
He only saw the mountain bird 

Stoop o'er his Old Dominion ! 

Still through each change of fortune strange. 

Racked nerve, and brain all burning, 
His loving faith in Mother-land 

Knew never shade of turning; 
By Britain's lakes, by Neva's wave, 

Whatever sky was o'er him, 
He heard her rivers' rushing sound, * 

Her blue peaks rose before him. 



Randolph of Roanoke. 253 

He held his slaves, yet made withal 

No false and vain pretences, 
Nor paid a lying priest to seek 

For Scriptural defences. 
His harshest words of proud rebuke. 

His bitterest taunt and scorning, 
Fell fire-like on the Northern brow 

That bent to him in fawning. 



He held his slaves ; yet kept the while 

His reverence for the Human ; 
In the dark vassals of his will 

He saw but Man and Woman ! 
No hunter of God's outraged poor 

His Roanoke valley entered; 
No trader in the souls of men 

Across hij threshold ventured. 



And when the old and wearied man 

Lay down for his last sleeping, 
And at his side, a slave no more. 

His brother-man stood weeping. 
His latest thought, his latest breath, 

To Freedom's duty giving. 
With failing tongue and trembling hand 

The dying blest the living. 

O, never bore his ancient State 

A truer son or braver ! 
None trampling with a calmer scorn 

On foreign hate or favor. 
He knew her faults, yet never stooped 

His proud and manly feeling 
To poor excuses of the wrong 

Or meanness of concealing. 



But none beheld with clearer eye 

The plague-spot o'er her spreading, 
None heard more sure the steps of Doom 

Along her future treading. 
For her as for himself he spake. 

When, his gaunt frame upbracing. 
He traced with dying hand "Remorse!" 

And perished in the tracing. 



254 Miscellaneous. 



As from the grave where Henry sleeps, 

From Vernon's weeping wiPow, 
And from the grassy pall which hides 

The Sage of Monticello, 
So from the leaf-strewn burial-stone 

Of Randolph's lowly dwelling, 
Virginia ! o'er thy land of slaves 

A warning voice is swelling ! 

And hark ! from thy deserted fields 

Are sadder warnings spoken, 
From quenched hearths, where thy exiled sons 

Their household gods have broken. 
The curse is on thee, — wolves for men 

And briers for corn-sheaves giving ! 
O, more than all thy dead renown 

Were now one hero living ! 



TO RONGE. 

Strike home, strong-hearted man ! Down to the root 

Of old oppression sink the Saxon steel. 

Thy work is to hew down. In God's name then 

Put nerve into thy task. Let other men 

Plant, as they may, that better tree whose fruit 

The wounded bosom of the Church shall heal. 

Be thou the image-breaker. Let thy blows 

Fall heavy as the Suabian's iron hand. 

On crown or crosier, which shall interpose 

Between thee and the weal of Fatherland. 

Leave creeds to closet idlers. First of all, 

Shake thou all German dream-land with the fall 

Of that accursed tree, whose evil trunk 

Was spared of old by Erfurt's stalwart monk. 

Fight not with ghosts and shadows. Let us hear 

The snap of chain-links. Let our gladdened ear 

Catch the pale prisoner's welcome, as the light 

Follows thy axe-stroke, through his cell of night. 

Be faithful to both worlds ; nor think to feed 

Earth's starving millions with the husks of creed. 

Servant of Him whose mission high and holy 

Was to the wronged, the sorrowing, and the lowly. 

Thrust not his Eden promise from our sphere, 

Distant and dim beyond the blue sky's span ; 

Like him of Patmos, see it, now and here, — 

The New Jerusalem comes down to man ! 



Chalklcy Hall. 255 

Be warned by Luther's error. Nor like him, 
When the roused Teuton dashes from his hmb 
The rusted chain of ages, help to bind 
His hands for whom th(ni claiin'st the freedom of the 
mind ! 



CHALKLEY HALL.^'' 

How bhmd and sweet the greeting- of this breeze 

To him who tlies 
From crowded street and red wall's weary gleam, 
Till far behind him like a hideous dream " 

The close dark citv lies ! 



Here, while the market murniurs, while men throng- 

The marble floor 
Of Mammon's altar, from the crush and din 
Of the world's madness let me gather in 

My better thoughts once more. 

O, once again revive, while on my ear 

The cry of Gain 
And low hoarse hum of Traffic dies away, 
Ye blessed memories of my early day 

Like sere grass wet with rain ! — 

Once more let God's green earth and sunset air 

Old feelings waken ; 
Through weary years of toil and strife and ill, 
O, let me feel that my good angel still 

Hath not his trust forsaken. 



And well do time and place befit my mood : 

Beneath the arms 
Of this embracing wood, a good man made 
His home, like Abraham resting in the shade 

Of Mamre's lonely palms. 

Here, rich with autumn gifts of countless years, 

The virgin soil 
Turned from the share he guided, and in rain 
And summer sunshine throve the fruits and grain 

Which blessed his honest toil. 



256 Miscclla neons. 

Here, from his voyages on the stormy seas, 

Weary and worn. 
He came to meet his children and to bless 
The Giver of all good in thankfulness 

And praise for his return. 

And here his neighbors gathered in to greet 

Their friend again. 
Safe from the wave and the destroying gales, 
Which reap untimely green Bermuda's vales, 

And vex the Carib main. 



J 



To HIM WHO KLIES KROIM CROWDED SlKEEl AND KEU WALL's WEAKY GLEAM. 

To hear the good man tell of simple truth. 

Sown in an hour 
Of weakness in some far-off Indian isle, 
From the parched bosom of a barren soil, 

Raised up in life and power : 

How at those gatherings in Barbadian vales, 

A tendering love 
Came o'er him, like the gentle rain from heaven, 
And words of fitness to his lips were given, 

And strength as from above : 



To John Picrpojit. 257 

How the sad captive listened to the Word, 

Until his chain 
Grew lighter, and his wounded spirit felt 
The healing balm of consolation melt 

Upon its life-long pain : 

How the armed warrior sat him down to hear 

Of Peace and Truth, 
And the proud ruler and his Creole dame, 
Jewelled and gorgeous in her beauty came, 

And fair and bright-eyed youth. 

O, far away beneath New England's sky, 

Even when a boy, 
Following my plough by Merrimack's green shore, 
His simple record I have pondered o'er 

With deep and quiet joy. 

And hence this scene, in sunset glory warm, — 

Its woods around. 
Its still stream winding on in light and shade. 
Its soft, green meadows and its upland glade, — 

To me is holy ground. 

And dearer far than haunts where Genius keeps 

His vigils still ; 
Than that where Avon's son of song is laid, 
Or Vaucluse hallowed by its Petrarch's shade, 

Or Virgil's laurelled hill. 

To the gray walls of fallen Paraclete, 

To Juliet's urn. 
Fair Arno and Sorrento's orange-grove. 
Where Tasso sang, let young Romance and Love 

Like brother pilgrims turn. 

But here a deeper and serener charm 

To all is given ; 
And blessed memories of the faithful dead 
O'er wood and vale and meadow-stream have shed 

The holy hues of Heaven ! 

TO JOHN PIERPONT. 

Not as a poor requital of the joy 

With which my childhood heard that lay of thine, 

Which, like an' echo of the song divine 
At Bethlehem breathed above the Holy Boy, 



258 Miscella rieous. 



Bore to my ear the airs of Palestine, — ■ 
Not to the poet, but the man I bring 
In friendship's fearless trust my offering: 
How much it lacks I feel, and thou wilt see, 
Yet well 1 know that thou hast deemed with me 
Life all too earnest, and its time too short 
For dreamy ease and Fancy's graceful sport ; 

And girded for thy constant strife with wrong, 
Like Nehemiah fighting while he wrought 

The broken walls of Zion, even thy song 
Hath a rude martial tone, a blow in every thought ! 

THE CYPRESS-TREE OF CEYLON. 

[Ibn Batuta, the celebrated Mussulman traveller of the fourteenth century, 
speaks of a cypress-tree in Ceylon, universally held sacred by the natives, the 
leaves of which were said to fall only at certain intervals, and he who had the hap- 
piness to find and eat one of them was restored, at once, to youth and vigor. The 
traveller saw several venerable JoGEES, or saints, sitting silent and motionless un- 
der the tree, patiently awaiting the falling of a leaf.] 

They sat in silent watchfulness 

The sacred cypress-tree about, 
And, from beneath old wrinkled brows, 

Their failing eyes looked out. 

Gray Age and Sickness waiting there 

Through weary night and lingering day,— 

Grim as the idols at their side, 
And motionless as they. 

Unheeded in the boughs above 

The song of Ceylon's birds was sweet ,• 

Unseen of them the island flowers 
Bloomed brightly at their feet. 

O'er them the tropic night-storm swept. 
The thunder crashed on rock and hill ; 

The cloud-fire on their eyeballs blazed. 
Yet there they waited still ! 

What was the world without to them ? 

The Moslem's sunset-call, — the dance 
Of Ceylon's maids, — the passing gleam 

Of battle-flag and lance .'^ 

They waited for that falling leaf 

Of which the wandering Jogees sing : 

Which lends once more to wintry age 
The greenness of its spring. 



The Cypress- Tree of Ceylon. 259 

O, if these poor and blinded ones 

In trustful patience wait to feel 
O'er torpid pulse and failing limb 

A youthful freshness steal ,-; 

Shall we, who sit beneath that Tree 
Whose healing leaves of life are shed, 

In answer to the breath of prayer, 
Upon the waiting head ; 

Not to restore our failing forms, 

And build the spirit's broken shrine. 
But on the fainting SOUL to shed 

A light and life divine ; 

Shall we grow wear}-' in our watch. 

And murmur at the long delay ? 
Impatient of our Father's time 

And his appointed way ? 

Or shall the stir of outward things 
Allure and claim the Christian's eye. 

When on the heathen watcher's ear 
Their powerless murmurs die ? 

Alas ! a deeper test of faith 

Than prison cell or martyr's stake, 
The self-abasing watchfulness 

Of silent prayer may make. 

We gird us bravely to rebuke 

Our erring brother in tlie wrong, — 
And in the ear of Pride and Power 

Our warning voice is strong. 

Easier to smite with Peter's sword 

Than " watch one hour" in humbling prayer. 

Life's " great things," like the Syrian lord. 
Our hearts can do and dare. 

But oh ! we shrink from Jordan's side, 

From waters which alone can save ; 
And murmur for Abana's banks 

And Pharpar's brighter wave. 



26o Miscellaneous. 



O Thou, who in the garden's shade 
Didst wake thy weary ones again, 

Who slumbered at that fearful hour 
Forgetful of thy pain ; 

Bend o'er us now, as over them, 

And set our sleep-bound spirits free, 

Nor leave us slumbering in the watch 
Our souls should keep with Thee ! 



A DREAM OF SUMMER. 

Bland as the morning breath of June 

The southwest breezes play ; 
And, through its haze, the winter noon 

Seems warm as summer's day. 
The snow-plumed Angel of the North 

Has dropped his icy spear ; 
Again the mossy earth looks forth, 

Again the streams gush clear. 

The fox his hillside cell forsakes, 

The muskrat leaves his nook, 
The bluebird in the meadow brakes 

Is singing with the brook. 
" Bear up, O Mother Nature !" ciy 

Bird, breeze, and streamlet free ; 
" Our winter voices prophesy 

Of summer days to thee !" 

So, in those winters of the soul, 

By bitter blasts and drear 
O'erswept from Memory's frozen pole, 

Will sunny days appear. 
Reviving Hope and Faith, they show 

The soul its living powers, 
And how beneath the winter's snow 

Lie germs of summer flowers ! 

The Night is mother of the Day, 

The Winter of the Spring, 
And ever upon old Decay 

The greenest mosses cling. 




.u\l 



" '\1 



*•■ * 



A Dream of Summer. 



262 Miscella neons. 



Behind the cloud the starlight lurks, 
Through showers the sunbeams fall ; 

For God, who loveth all his works, 
Has left his Hope with all ! 

j^th \si DiiiHth., 1847. 

TO , 

WITH A COPY OF WOOLMAN'S JOURNAL. 
*' Get the -writings of John Woolman by heart." — Essays of Elia. 

Maiden ! with the fair brown tresses 

Shading o'er thy dreamy eye, 
Floating on thy thoughtful forehead 

Cloud wreaths of its sky. 

Youthful years and maiden beauty, 
Joy with them should still abide, — 

Instinct take the place of Duty, 
Love, not Reason, guide. 

Ever in the New rejoicing, 

Kindly beckoning back the Old, 

Turning, with a power like Midas, 
All things into gold. 

And the passing shades of sadness 
Wearing even a welcome guise, 

As, when some bright lake lies open 
To the sunny skies. 

Every wing of bird above it, 

Every light cloud floating on, 
Glitters like that flashing mirror 

In the self-same sun. 

But upon thy youthful forehead 
Something like a shadow lies ; 

And a serious soul is looking 
From thy earnest eyes. 

With an early introversion, 

Through the forms of outward things, 

Seeking for the subtle essence, 
And the hidden springs. 



To — ■ . 263 



Deeper than the gilded surface 

Hath thy wakeful vision seen, 
Farther than the narrow present 

Have thy journeying-s been. 

Thou hast midst Life's empty noises 
Heard the solemn steps of Time, 

And the low mysterious voices 
Of another clime. 

All the mystery of Being 

Hath upon thy spirit pressed, — 

Thoughts which, like the Deluge wanderer, 
Find no place of rest : 

That which mystic Plato pondered, 
That which Zeno hearcl with awe, 

And the star-rapt Zoroaster 
In his night-watch saw. 



From the doubt and darkness spring! 

Of the dim, uncertain Past, 
Moving to the dark still shadows 

O'er the Future cast, 

Early hath Life's mighty question 
Thrilled within thy heart of youth. 

With a deep and strong beseeching : 
What and where' is Truth } 



Hollow creed and ceremonial. 

Whence the ancient life hath fled. 

Idle faith unknown to action. 
Dull and cold and dead. 



Oracles, whose wire-worked mean 
Only wake a quiet scorn, — 

Not from these thy seeking spirit 
Hath its answer drawn. 



But, like some tired child at even, 
On thy mother Nature's breast, 

Thou, methinks, art vainly seeking 
Truth, and peace, and rest. 



264 Miscellaneous. 



O'er that mother's rugged features 
Thou art throwing Fancy's veil, 

Light and soft as woven moonbeams, 
Beautiful and frail ! 

O'er the rough chart of Existence, 
Rocks of sin and wastes of woe, 

Soft airs breathe, and green leaves tremble, 
And cool fountains flow. 



And to thee an answer cometh 
From the earth and from the sky. 

And to thee the hills and waters 
And the stars reply. 

But a soul-sufficing answer 

Hath no outward origin ; 
More than Nature's many voices 

May be heard within. 

Even as the great Augustine 

Questioned earth and sea and sky,^" 

And the dusty tomes of learning 
And old poesy. 

But his earnest spirit needed 

More than outward Nature taught,— 
More than blest the poet's vision 

Or the sage's thought. 

Only in the gathered silence 
Of a calm and waiting frame 

Light and wisdom as from Heaven 
To the seeker came. 

Not to ease and aimless quiet 
Doth that inward answer tend, 

But to works of love and duty 
As our being's end, — 

Not to idle dreams and trances, 
Length of face, and solemn tone, 

But to Faith, in daily striving 
And performance shown. 



To -. 265 

Earnest toil and strong endeavor 

Of a spirit which within 
Wrestles with familiar evil 

And besetting sin ; 

And without, with tireless vigor, 

Steady heart, and weapon strong. 
In the power of truth assailing 

Every form of wrong. 

Guided thus, how passing lovely 

Is the track of Woolman's feet ! 
And his brief and simple record 

How serenely sweet ! 

O'er life's humblest duties throwing 

Light the earthling never knew. 
Freshening all its dark waste places 

As with Hermon's dew. 

All wiiich glows in Pascal's pages,— 

All which sainted Guion sought, 
Or the blue-eyed German Rahel 

Half-unconscious taught : — 

Beauty, such as Goethe pictured, 

Such as Shelley dreamed of, shed 
Living warmth and starry brightness 

Round that poor man's head. 

Not a vain and cold ideal, 

Not a poet's dream alone, 
But a presence warm and real. 

Seen and felt and known. 

When the red right hand of slaughter 

Moulders with the steel it swung. 
When the name of seer and poet 

Dies on Memory's tongue. 

All bright thoughts and pure shall gather 
Round that meek and suffering one, — 

Glorious, like the seer-seen angel 
Standing: in the sun ! 



266 Misccllu 



Take the good man's book and ponder 
What its pages say to thee, — 

Blessed as the hand of heahng 
May its lesson be. 



If it only serves to strengthen 
Yearnings for a higher good, 

For the fount of living waters 
And diviner food ; 



If the pride of human reason 
Feels its meek and still rebuke, 

Quailing like the eye of Peter 
From the Just One's look ! — 



If v^^ith readier ear thou heedest 
What the Inward Teacher saith, 

Listening with a willing spirit 
And a childlike faith, — 



Thou mayst live to bless the giver, 
Who himself but frail and weak, 

Would at least the highest welfare 
Of another seek ; 



And his gift, though poor and lowly 
It may seem to other eyes. 

Yet may prove an angel holy 
In a pilgrim's guise. 



LEGGETT'S MONUMENT. 

" Ye build the tombs of the prophets." 

Holy ]Vrit. 

Yes, — pile the marble o'er him ! It is well 

That ye who mocked him in his long stern strife, 
And planted in the pathway of his life 

The ploughshares of your hatred hot from hell. 
Who clamored down the bold reformer when 
He pleaded for his captive fellow-men, 



Leggetf s Moniiinent. 267 

Who spurned him in the market-place, and sought 

Within thy walls, St. Tammany, to bind 
In party chains the free and honest thought, 

The angel utterance of an upright mind, 
Well is it now that o'er his grave ye raise 
The stony tribute of your tardy praise. 
For not alone that pile shall tell to Fame 
Of the brave heart beneath, but of the builders' shame ! 



SONGS OF LABOR, 

AND OTHER POEMS. 

DEDICATION. 

I WOULD the gift I offer here 

Might graces from thy favor take, 
And, seen through Friendship's atmosphere, 
On softened hnes and coloring, wear 
The unaccustomed Hght of beauty, for thy sake. 

Few leaves of Fancy's spring remain : 

But what I have I give to thee, — 
The o'er-sunned bloom of summer's plain, 
And paler flowers, the latter rain 
Calls from the westering slope of life's autumnal lea. 

Above the fallen groves of green. 

Where youth's enchanted forest stood, 
Dry root and mossed trunk, between, 
A sober after-growth is seen. 
As springs the pine where falls the gay-leafed maple wood ! 

Yet birds will sing, and breezes play 

Their leaf-harps in the sombre tree ; 
And through the bleak and wintry day 
It keeps its steady green alway, — 
So, even my after-thoughts may have a charm for thee. 

Art's perfect forms no moral need, 

And beauty is its own excuse ;*' 

But for the dull and flowerless weed 

Some healing \'irtue still must plead, 

And the rouirh ore must find its honors in its use. 



The Ship-Bitildcrs. 269 




So haply these, 

my simple 

lays 
Of homely 

toil, may 

s e r \' e to 

show 
The orchard 

bloom and 

tasselled 

maize Yet birds will sing, and breezes i'lay. 

That skirt 

and g-ladden duty's ways, 
The unsung beauty hid life's common things below. 

Haply from them the toiler, bent 

Above his forge or plough, may gain, 
A manlier spirit of content. 
And feel that life is wisest spent 
Where the strong working hand makes strong the work- 
ing brain. 

The doom which to the guilty pair 
Without the walls of Eden came. 
Transforming sinless ease to care 
And rugged toil, no more shall bear 
The burden of old crime, or mark of primal shame. 

A blessing now, — a curse no more ; 

Since He, whose name we breathe with awe, 
The coarse mechanic vesture wore, — 
A poor man toiling with the poor, 
In labor, as in prayer, fultilling the same law. 



THE SHIP-BUILDERS. 

The sky is ruddy in the east, 

The earth is gray below. 
And, spectral in the river-mist. 

The ship's white timbers show. 
Then let the sounds of measured stroke 

And grating saw begin ; 
The broad-axe to the gnarled oak, 

The mallet to the pin ! 



270 



Songs of Labor. 



Hark !— roars the bellows, blast on blast, 

The sooty smithy jars, 
And fire-sparks, rising far and fast, 

Are fading with the stars. 
All day for us the smith shall stand 

Beside that flashing forge ; 
All day for us his heavy hand 

The groaning anvil scourge. 




Hark !— roars the bellows, blast on blast, the sooty smithy jars. 

From far-off hills, the panting team 

For us is toiling near ; 
For us the raftsmen down the stream 

Their island barges steer. 
Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke 

In forests old and still, — 
For us the century-circled oak 

Falls crashing down his hill. 



Up ! — up ! — in nobler toil than ours 

No craftsmen bear a part : 
We make of Nature's giant powers 

The slaves of human Art. 
Lay rib to rib and beam to beam, 

And drive the treenails free ; 
Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam 

Shall tempt the searching sea! 



The SJiip-Buildcrs. 271 

Where'er the keel of our good ship 

The sea's rough field shall plough, — - 
Where'er her tossing spars shall drip 

With salt-spray caught below, — 
That ship must heed her master's beck, 

Her helm obey his hand, 
And seamen tread her reeling deck 

As if they trod the land. 



Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak 

Of Northern ice may peel ; 
The sunken rock and coral peak 

May grate along her keel ; 
And know we well the painted shell 

We give to wind and wave. 
Must float, the sailor's citadel. 

Or sink, the sailor's grave ! 

Ho ! — strike away the bars and blocks^ 

And set the good ship free ! 
Why lingers on these dusty rocks 

The young bride of the sea ? 
Look ! how she moves adown the grooves. 

In graceful beauty now ! 
How lowly on the breast she loves 

Sinks down her virgin prow ! 



God bless her ! wheresoe'er the breeze 

Her snowy wing shall fan, 
Aside the frozen Hebrides, 



Or sultry Hindost; 



Where'er, in mart or on the main, 
With peaceful flag unfurled, 

She helps to wind the silken chain 
Of commerce round the world ! 



Speed on the ship ! — But let her bear 

No merchandise of sin, 
No groaning cargo of despair 

Her roomy hold within ; 
No Lethean drug for Eastern lands, 

Nor poison-draught for ours; 
But honest fruits of toiling hands 

And Nature's sun and showers. 



272 Sojtgs of Labor. 



Be hers the Prairie's golden grain, 

The Desert's golden sand, 
The clustered fruits of sunny Spain, 

The spice of Morning-land ! 
Her pathway on the open main 

May blessings follow free, 
And glad hearts welcome back again 

Her white sails from the sea ! 



thp: shoemakers. 

H() ! workers of the old time styled 

The Gentle Craft of Leather ! 
Young brothers of the ancient guild. 

Stand forth once more together ! 
Call out again your long array. 

In the olden merry manner! 
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day. 

Fling out your blazoned banner ! 

Rap, rap ! upon the well-worn stone 

How falls the polished hammer ! 
Rap, rap ! the measured sound has grown 

A quick and merry clamor. 
Now shape the sole ! now deftly curl 

The glossy vamp around it. 
And bless the while the bright-eyed girl 

Whose gentle fingers bound it ! 

For you, along the Spanish main 

A hundred keels are ploughing ; 
For you, the Indian on the plain 

His lasso-coil is throwing ; 
For you, deep glens with hemlock dark 

The woodman's fire is lighting ; 
For you, upon the oak's gray bark, 

The woodman's axe is smiting. 

For you, from Carolina's pine 

The rosin-gum is stealing ; 
For you, the dark-eyed Florentine 

Her silken skein is reeling ; 
For you, the dizzy goat-herd roams 

His rugged AljMue ledges ; 
For you, round all her shepherd homes. 

Bloom England's thorny hedges. 



llie SJwcmakers. 273 

The foremost still, by day or. night, 

On moated mound or heather, 
Where'er the need of trampled right 

Brought toiling men together ; 
Where the free burghers from the wall 

Defied the mail-clad master, 
Than yours, at Freedom's trumpet-call. 

No craftsmen rallied faster. 

Let foplings sneer, let fools deride, — 

Ye heed no idle scorner ; 
Free hands and hearts are still your pride, 

And duty done, your honor. 




Upon the well-worn stone how falls the polished hammer. 

Ye dare to trust, for honest fame. 

The jury Time empanels. 
And leave to Truth each noble name 

W^hich glorifies your annals. 

Thy songs, Hans Sachs, are living yet, 

In strong and hearty German ; 
And Bioomfield's lay, and Gifford's wit. 

And patriot fame of Sherman ; 
Still from his book, a mystic seer. 

The soul of Behmen teaches, 
And England's priestcraft shakes to hear 

Of Fox's leathern breeches. 



2 74 So7igs of Labor. 



The foot is yours ; where'er it falls, 

It treads your well-wrought leather, 
On earthen floor, in marble halls, 

On carpet, or on heather. 
Still there the sweetest charm is found 

Of matron grace or vestal's, 
As Hebe's foot bore nectar round 

Among the old celestials ! 

Rap, rap ! — your stout and bluff brogan, 

With footsteps slow and weary, 
May wander where the sky's blue span 

Shuts down upon the prairie. 
On Beauty's foot your slipper's glance, 

By Saratoga's fountains, 
Or twinkle down the summer dance 

Beneath the Crystal Mountains ! 

The red brick to the mason's hand, 

The brown earth to the tiller's, 
The shoe in yours shall wealth command, 

Like fairy Cinderella's ! 
As they who shunned the household maid 

Beheld the crown upon her, 
So all shall See your toil repaid 

With hearth and home and honor. 

Then let the toast be freely quaffed, 

In water cool and brimming, — 
" All honor to the good old Craft, 

Its merry men and women !" 
Call out again your long array, 

In the old time's pleasant manner : 
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day, 

Fling out his blazoned banner ! 

THE DROVERS. 

Through heat and cold, and shower and sun, 

Still onward cheerly driving ! 
There 's life alone in duty done, 

A»nd rest alone in striving. 
But see ! the day is closing cool, 

The woods are dim before us ; 
The white fog of the wayside pool 

Is creeping slowly o'er us. 



The Drovers. 



275 




The night is fall- 
ing, com- 
rades mine, 
Our footsore 
beasts are 
weary, 
And through 
yon elms 
the tavern 
sign 
Looks out 
upon us 
cheery. 
The landlord 
beckons 
from his 
door, 
His beechen 
fire is glow- 
ing ; 

These ample barns, with feed in store. 
Are filled to overflowing. 



1.1 



Still onward cheerly driving. 



From many a valley frowned across 

By brows of rugged mountains ; 
From hillsides where, through spongy moss. 

Gush out the river fountains ; 
From quiet farm-fields, green and low. 

And bright with blooming clover ; 
From vales of corn the wandering crow 

No richer hovers over ; 

Day after day our way has been. 

O'er many a hill and hollow ; 
By lake and stream, by wood and glen. 

Our stately drove we follow. 
Through dust-clouds rising thick and dun, 

As smoke of battle o'er us. 
Their white horns glisten in the sun. 

Like plumes and crests before us. 



We see them slowly climb the hill, 
As slow behind it sinking ; 

Or, thronging close, from roadside rill, 
Or sunny lakelet, drinking. 



276 Songs of Labor., 

Now crowding in the narrow road, 
In thick and struggHng masses, 

They glare upon the teamster's load, 
Or rattling coach that passes. 

Anon, with toss of horn and tail, 

And paw of hoof, and bellow, 
They leap some farmer's broken pale. 

O'er meadow-close or fallow. 
Forth comes the startled goodman ; forth 

Wife, children, house-dog, sally, 
Till once more on their dusty path 

The baffled truants rally. 

We drive no starvelings, scraggy grown, 

Loose-legged, and ribbed and bony. 
Like those who grind their noses down 

On pastures bare and stony, — 
Lank oxen, rough as Indian dogs. 

And cows too lean for shadows, 
Disputing feebly with the frogs 

The crop of saw-grass meadows ! 

In our good drove, so sleek and fair, 

No bones of leanness rattle ; 
No tottering hide-bound ghosts are there. 

Or Pharaoh's evil cattle. 
Each stately beeve bespeaks the hand 

That fed him unrepining ; 
The fatness of a goodly land 

In each dun hide is shining. 

We 've sought them where, in warmest nooks, 

The freshest feed is growing. 
By sweetest springs and clearest brooks 

Through honeysuckle llowing ; 
Wherever hillsides, sloping south, 

Are bright with early grasses. 
Or, tracking green the lowland's drouth, 

The mountain streamlet passes. 

But now the day is closing cool. 
The woods are dim before us. 

The white fog of the wayside pool 
Is creeping slowly o'er us. 



The Fishermen. 277 



The cricket to the frog's bassoon 

His shrillest time is keeping ; 
The sickle of yon setting moon 

The meadow-mist is reaping. 

The night is falling, comrades mine, 

Our footsore beasts are weary, 
And through yon elms the tavern sign 

Looks out upon us cheer\'. 
To-morrow, eastward with our charge 

We '11 go to meet the dawning, 
Ere yet the pines of Kearsarge 

Have seen the sun of morning. 

When snow-flakes o'er the frozen earth, 

Instead of birds, are flitting ; 
When children throng the glowing hearth. 

And quiet wives are knitting ; 
While in the fire-light strong and clear 

Young eyes of pleasure glisten, 
To tales of all we see and hear 

The ears of home shall listen. 

By many a Northern lake and hill, 

From many a mountain pasture, 
Shall Fancy play the Drover still. 

And speed the long night faster. 
Then let us on, through shower and sun. 

And heat and cold, be driving ; 
There 's life alone in duty done. 

And rest alone in striving. 

THE FISHERMEN. 

Hurrah ! the seaward breezes 

Sweep down the bay amain ; 
Heave up, my lads, the anchor ! 

Run up the sail again ! 
Leave to the lubber landsmen 

The rail-car and the steed ; 
The stars of heaven shall guide us. 

The breath of heaven shall speed. 

From the hill-top looks the steeple. 
And the lighthouse from the sand ; 

And the scattered pines are waving 
Their farewell from the land. 



278 



So7igs of Labor. 



One glance, my lads, behind us. 
For the homes we leave one sigh, 

Ere we take the change and chances 
Of the ocean and the sky. 



~h 



\A', 



Where in mist the rock is hiding, and the sharp reef 

Now, brothers, for the icebergs 

Of frozen Labrador, 
Floating spectral in the moonshine, 

Along the low, black shore ! 
Where like snow the gannet's feathers 

On Brador's rocks are shed, 
And the noisy murr are flying, 

Like black scuds, overhead ; 

Where in mist the rock is hiding, 

And the sharp reef lurks below. 
And the white squall smites in summer. 

And the autumn tempests blow ; 
Where, through gray and rolling vapor, 

From evening unto morn, 
A thousand boats are hailing, 

Horn answering unto horn. 



The Fishermen. 279 



Hurrah ! for the Red Island, 

With the white cross on its crown ! 
Hurrah ! for Meccatina, 

And its mountains bare and brown ! 
Where the Caribou's tall antlers 

O'er the dwarf-wood freely toss, 
And the footstep of the Mickmack 

Has no sound upon the moss. 

There we '11 drop our lines, and gather 

Old Ocean's treasures in, 
Where'er the mottled mackerel 

Turns up a steel-dark fin. 
The sea 's our field of harvest, 

Its scaly tribes our grain ; 
We '11 reap the teeming waters 

As at home they reap the plain ! 

Our wet hands spread the carpet, 

And light the hearth of home ; 
From our fish, as in the old time, 

The silver coin shall come. 
As the demon fled the chamber 

Where the fish of Tobit lay, 
So ours from all our dwellings 

Shall frighten Want away. 



Though the mist upon our jackets 

In the bitter air congeals. 
And our lines wind stiff and slowly 

From off the frozen reels ; 
Though the fog be dark around us, 

And the storm blow high and loud, 
We will whistle down the wild wind, 

And laugh beneath the cloud ! 



In the darkness as in daylight, 

On the water as on land, 
God's eye is looking on us, 

And beneath us is his hand I 
Death will find us soon or later. 

On the deck or in the coi ; 
And we cannot meet him better 

Than in working out our lot. 



280 Songs of Labor. 



Hurrah ! — hurrah ! — the west-wind 

Comes freshening down the bay, 
The rising sails are filHng, — 

Give way, my lads, give way ! 
Leave the coward landsman clinging 

To the dull earth, like a weed, — 
The stars of heaven shall guide us, 

The breath of heaven shall speed ! 

THE HUSKERS. 

It was late in mild October, and the long autumnal rain 
Had left the summer harvest-fields all green with grass again ; 
The first sharp frosts had fallen, leaving all the woodlands gay 
With the hues of summer's rainbow% or the meadows-flowers oH 
May. 

Through a thin, dry mist, that morning, the sun rose broad and 

red. 
At first a rayless disk of fire, he brightened as he sped ; 
Yet, even his noontide glory fell chastened and subdued, 
On the cornfields and the orchards, and softly pictured wood. 

And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to tlie night, 
He wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light ; 
Slanting through the painted beeches, he glorified the hill ; 
And, beneath it, pond and meadow lay brighter, greener still. 

And shouting boys in woodland haunts caught glimpses of that 

sky. 
Flecked by the many-tinted leaves, and laughed, they knew not 

why ; 
And school-girls, gay with aster-flowers, beside the meadow 

brooks, 
Mingled the glow of autumn with the sunshine of sweet looks. 

From spire and barn looked westerly the patient weathercocks ; 

But even the birches on the hill stood motionless as rocks. 

No sound was in the woodlands, save the squirrel's dropping 

shell. 
And the yellow leaves among the Iwughs, low rustling as thev 

fell. 

The summer grains were harvested ; the stubble-fields la)' dry. 
Where June winds rolled, in light and shade, the pale green 
waves of rye ; 



The Huskers. 



But still, on gentle hill-slopes, in valleys fringed with wood, 
Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood. 

Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through husks that, dry 

and sere, 
Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the vellow ear ; 
Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant fold, 
And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's sphere of gold. 




\ 

And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'ek. 

There wrought the busy harvesters ; and many a creaking wain 
Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk and grain ; 
Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank down, at 

last. 
And like a merrv guest's farewell, the day in brightness passed. 

And lo ! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream, and 

pond. 
Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond, 
Slowly o'er the eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone, 
And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one ! 



282 Songs of Labor. 



As thus into the quiet night the twihght lapsed away, 
And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay ; 
From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet without name, 
Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry buskers 
came. 

Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow, 
Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below ; 
The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before, 
And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmer- 
ing o'er. 

Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart. 
Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart ; 
While, up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade. 
At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children 
played. 

Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair, 
Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brow^n 

hair. 
The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of 

tongue, 
To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a husking-ballad sung. 

THE CORN-SONG. 

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard ! 

Heap high the golden corn ! 
No richer gift has Autumn poured 

From out her lavish horn I 

Let other lands, exulting, glean 

The apple from the pine, 
The orange from its glossy green, 

The cluster from the vine ; 

We better love the hardy gift 

Our rugged vales bestow, 
To cheer us when the storm shall drift 

Our harvest-fields with snow. 

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers, 

Our ploughs their furrows made. 
While on the hills the sun and showers 

Of changeful April played. 



The Corn- Song. 283 



We dropped the seed o'er hill and i)lain, 

Beneath the sun of May, 
And frightened from our sprouting- grain 

Tlie robber crows away. 

All through the long, bright days of June 
Its leaves grew green and fair, 

And waved in hot midsummer's noon 
Its soft and yellow hair. 



4 



^ 




I 



Give us the rowl of samp and milk, by homespun beauty poured. 

And now, with autumn's moonlit eves, 

Its harvest-time has come, 
We pluck away the frosted leaves, 

And bear the treasure home. 

There, where the snows about us drift, 

And winter winds are cold, 
Fair hands the broken grain shall sift, 

And knead its meal of gold. 



284 Songs of Labor. 



Let vapid idlers loll in silk 

Around their costly board ; 
Give us the bowl of samp and milk, 

By homespun beauty poured ! 

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth 

Sends up its smoky curls, 
Who will not thank the kindly earth, 

And bless our farmer girls ! 

Then shame on all the proud and vain. 
Whose folly laughs to scorn 

The blessing of our hardy grain. 
Our wealth of golden corn ! 

.Let earth withhold her goodly root. 

Let mildew blight the rye, 
Give to the worm the orchard's fruit. 

The wheat-field to the fly : 

But let the good old crop adorn 

The hills our fathers trod ; 
Still let us, for His golden corn. 

Send up our thanks to God ! 



THE LUMBERMEN. 

Wildly round our woodland quarters. 

Sad-voiced Autumn grieves ; 
Thickly down these swelling waters 

Float his fallen leaves. 
Through the tall and naked timber, 

Column-like and old. 
Gleam the sunsets of November, 

From their skies of gold. 

O'er us, to the southland heading, 

Screams the gray wild-goose ; 
On the night-frost sounds the treading 

Of the brindled moose. 
Noiseless creeping, while we 're sleeping, 

Frost his task-work plies ; 
Soon, his icy bridges heaping. 

Shall our log-piles rise. 



The Lumbermen. 285 

When, with sounds of smothered thunder, 

On some night of rain, 
Lake and river break asunder 

Winter's weakened chain, 
Down the wild March flood shall bear them 

To the saw-mill's wheel. 
Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them 

With his teeth of steel. 



Be it starlight, be it moonlight, 

In these vales below, 
When the earliest beams of sunlight 

Streak the mountain's snow. 
Crisps the hoar-frost, keen and early. 

To our hunying feet. 
And the forest echoes clearly 

4-11 our blows repeat. 

Where the crystal Ambijejis 

Stretches broad and clear. 
And Millnoket's pine black ridges 

Hide the browsing deer : 
Where, through lakes and wide morasses, 

Or through rocky walls, 
Swift and strong, Penobscot passes 

White with foamy falls ; 



Where, through clouds, are ghmpses given 

Of Katahdin's sides, — 
Rock and forest piled to heaven, 

Torn and ploughed by slides ! 
Far below, the Indian trapping, 

In the sunshine warm ; 
Far above, the snow-cloud wrapping 

Half the peak in storm 1 



Where are mossy carpets better 

Than the Persian weaves, 
And than Eastern perfumes sweetei 

Seem the fading leaves ; 
And a music wild and solemn. 

From the pine-tree's height. 
Rolls its vast and sea-like volume 

On the wind of nvAv ; 




And the forest echoes clearly all our blows repeat. 



The Liinibcrnicn. 287 



Make we here our camp of winter ; 

And, through sleet and snow. 
Pitchy knot and beechen sphnter 

On our hearth shall glow. 
Here, with mirth to lighten duty, 

We shall lack alone 
Woman's smile and girlhood's beauty. 

Childhood's lisping tone. 

But their hearth is brighter burning 

For our toil to-day ; 
And the welcome of returning 

Shall our loss repay. 
When, like seamen from the waters. 

From the woods we come. 
Greeting sisters, wives, and daughters, 

Angels of our home ! 



Not for us the measured ringing 

Froni the village spire, 
Not for us the Sabbath singing 

Of the sweet-voiced choir : 
Ours the old, majestic temple. 

Where God's brightness shines 
Down the dome so grand and ample, 

Propped by lofty pines ! 



Through each branch-enwoven skylight, 

Speaks He in the breeze, 
As of old beneath the twilight 

Of lost Eden's trees ! 
For his ear, the inward feeling 

Needs no outward tongue ; 
He can see the spirit kneeling 

While the axe is swung. 



Heeding truth alone, and turning 

From the false and dim. 
Lamp of toil or altar burning 

Are alike to Him. 
Strike, then, comrades ! — Trade is waiting 

On our rugged toil ; 
Far ships waiting for the freighting 

Of our woodland spoil ! 



Songs of Labor. 



Ships, whose traffic linl<:s these highlands, 

Bleak and cold, of ours. 
With the citron-planted islands 

Of a clime of Aowers ; 
To our frosts the tribute bringing 

Of eternal heats ; 
In our lap of winter flinging 

Tropic fruits and sweets. 



Cheerly, on the axe of labor. 

Let the sunbeams dance. 
Better than the fiash of sabre 

Or the gleam of lance ! 
Strike ! — With eveiy blow is given 

Freer sun and sky. 
And the long-hid earth to heaven 

Looks, with wondering eye ! 



Loud behind us grow the murmurs 

Of the age to come ; 
Clang of smiths, and tread of farmers, 

Bearing harvest home ! 
Here her virgin lap with treasures 

Shall the green earth fill ; 
Waving wheat and golden maize-ears 

Crown each beechen hill. 



Keep who will the city's alleys. 

Take the smooth-shorn plain, — 
Give to us the cedar valleys. 

Rocks and hills of Maine ! 
In our North-land, wild and woody, 

Let us still have part : 
Rugged nurse and mother sturdy, 

Hold us to thy heart ! 



O, our free hearts beat the warmer 

For thy breath of snow ; 
And our tread is all the firmer 

For thy rocks below. 
Freedom, hand in hand with la])or, 

Walketh strong and brave ; 
On the forehead of his neighbor 

No man writeth Slave ! 



The Lunibcnncji. 289 



Lo, the day breaks ! old Katahdin's 

Pine-trees show its fires, 
While from these dim forest gardens 

Rise their blackened spires. 
Up, my comrades ! up and doing ! 

Manhood's rugged play 
Still renewing, bravely hewing 

Through the world our way ! 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



THE ANGELS OF BUENA VISTA. 

Speak and tell us, our Ximena, looking northward far away, 

O'er the camp of the invaders, o'er the Mexican array. 

Who is losing"? who is winning? are they far or come they 

near ? 
Look abroad, and tell us, sister, whither rolls the storm we hear. 

" Down the hills of Angostura still the storm of battle rolls ; 
Blood is flowing, men are dying ; God have mercy on their 

souls !" 
Who is losing ? who is winning ? — " Over hill and over plain, 
I see but smoke of cannon clouding through the mountain 

rain." 

Holy Mother ! keep our brothers ! Look, Ximena, look once 
more. 

" Still I see the fearful whirlwind rolling darkly as before. 

Bearing on, in strange confusion, friend and foeman, foot and 
horse, 

Like some wild and troubled torrent sweeping down its moun- 
tain course." 

Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Ah ! the smoke has rolled 

away ; 
And I see the Northern rifles gleaming down the ranks of gray. 
Hark ! that sudden blast of bugles ! there the troop of Minon 

wheels ; 
There the Northern horses thunder, with the cannon at their 

heels. 

" Jesu, pity ! how it thickens ! now retreat and now advance ! 
Right against the blazing cannon shivers Puebla's charging 

lance ! 
Down they go, the brave young riders ; horse and foot together 

fall; 
Like a ploughshare in the fallow, through them ploughs the 

Northern ball." 



The Angels of Buena Vista. 291 

Nearer came the storm and nearer, rolling fast and frightful on ! 
Speak, Ximena, speak and tell us, who has lost, and who has 

won ? 
•' Alas ! alas ! I know not ; friend and foe together fall, 
O'er the dying rush the living : pray, my sisters, for them all ! 

" Lo ! the wind the smoke is lifting : Blessed Mother, save my 

brain ! 
I can see the wounded crawling slowly out from heaps of slain. 
Now they stagger, blind and bleeding ; now they fall, and strive 

to rise ; 
Hasten, sisters, haste and save them, lest they die before our eyes ! 

" O my heart's love ! O my dear one ! lay thy poor head on my 
knee : • 

Dost thou know the lips that kiss thee ? Canst thou hear me ? 
canst thou see ? 

O my husband, brave and gentle ! O my Bernal, look once 
more 

On the blessed cross before thee ! Mercy ! mercy ! all is o'er !" 

Dry thy tears, my poor Ximena ; lay thy dear one down to rest ; 
Let his hands be meekly folded, lay the cross upon his breast ; 
Let his dirge be sung hereafter, and his funeral masses said : 
To-day, thou poor bereaved one, the living ask thy aid. 

Close beside her, faintly moaning, fair and young, a soldier lay, 
Torn with shot and pierced with lances, bleeding slow his life 

away ; 
But, as tenderly before him the lorn Ximena knelt. 
She saw the Northern eagle shining on his pistol-belt. 

With a stifled cry of horror straigiit she turned away her head ; 
With a sad and bitter feeling looked she back upon her dead ; 
But she heard ihe youth's low moaning, and his struggling 

breath of pain. 
And she raised the cooling water to his parching lips again. 

Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly 
smiled : 

Was that pitying face his mother's ? did she watch beside her 
child ? 

All his stranger words with meaning her woman's heart sup- 
plied ; 

With her kiss upon his forehead, " Mother !" murmured he, and 
died! 



2g2 MisceUaiieous. 



" A bitter curse upon them, poor boy, who led thee forth, 
From some j^entle, sad-eyed mother, weeping, lonely, in the 

North !" 
Spake the mournful Mexic woman, as she laid him with her 

dead, 
And turned to sootlie th.e liviuL^-, and bind the wounds which 

bled. 

Look forth once more, Ximena ! " Like a cloud before the wind 
Rolls the battle down the mountains, leaving blood and death 

behind ; 
Ah ! they plead in vain for mercy ; in the dust the wounded 

strive ; 
Hide your faces, holy angels ! O thou Christ of God, forgive !" 




And she raised the coaling water to his parching lips again. 



Sink, O Night, among thy mountains ; let the cool, gray shad- 
ows fall ; 

Dying brothers, fighting demons, drop thy curtain over all ! 

Through the thickening winter twilight, wide apart the battle 
rolled, 

In its sheath the sabre rested, and the cannon's lips grew cold. 

But the noble Mexic women still their holy task pursued, 
Through that long, dark night of sorrow, worn and faint and 
Vacking food. 



Barclay of Ury. 293 



0\er weak and suffering brothers, with a tender care they hung. 
And the dying foeman blessed them in a strange and Northern 
tongue. 



Not wholly lost, O Father ! is this evil world of ours ; 
Upward, through its blood and ashes, spring afresh the Eden 

flow^ers ; 
From its smoking hell of battle. Love and Pity send their prayer, 
And still thy white-winged angels hover dimly in our air ! 



FORGIVENESS. 

My heart was heavy, for its trust had been 

Abused, its kindness answered with foul wrong ; 

So, turning gloomily from my fellow-men, 
One summer Sabbath day I strolled among 

The green mounds of the village burial-place ; 
Where, pondering how all human love and hate 
Find one sad level ; and how, soon or late, 

Wronged and wrongdoer, each with meekened face, 
And cold hands folded over a still heart, 

Pass the green threshold of our common grave, 
WHiither all footsteps tend, whence none depart, 

Awed for myself, and pitying my race, 

Our common sorrow, like a mighty wave. 

Swept all my pride away, and trembling I forgave ! 



BARCLAY OF URY/^ 

Up the streets of Aberdeen, 
By the kirk and college green, 

■ Rode the Laird of Ury ; 
Close behind him, close beside, 
Foul of mouth and evil-eyed, 
Pressed the mob in fury. 

Flouted him the drunken churl. 
Jeered at him the serving-girl, 

Prompt to please her master; 
And the begging carlin, late 
Fed and clothed at Ury's gate. 

Cursed him as he passed her. 



294 Miscella neous. 



Yet, with calm and stately mien, 
Up the streets of Aberdeen 

Came he slowly riding : 
And, to all he saw and heard, 
Answering- not with bitter word. 

Turning not for chiding. 

Came a troop with broadswords swinging, 
Bits and bridles sharply ringing, 

Loose and free and fro ward ; 
Quoth the foremost, " Ride him down ! 
Push him ! prick him ! through the town 

Drive the Quaker coward !" 

But from out the thickening crowd 
Cried a sudden voice and loud : 

" Barclay ! Ho ! a Barclay !" 
And the old man at his side 
Saw a comrade, battle tried, 

Scarred and sunburned darkly ; 

Who with ready weapon bare, 
Fronting to the troopers there. 

Cried aloud : " God save us. 
Call ye coward him who stood 
Ankle deep in Lutzen's blood. 

With the brave Gustavus ?" 

" Nay, I do not need thy sword. 
Comrade mine," said Ury's lord ; 

" Put it up, I pray thee : 
Passive to his holy will. 
Trust I in my Master still, 

Even though he slay me. 



" Pledges of thy love and faith. 
Proved on many a field of death. 

Not by me are needed." 
Marvelled much that henchman bold, 
That his laird, so stout of old, 

Now so meekly pleaded. 

" Woe *s the day !" he sadly said, 
With a slowly shaking head, 
And a look of pity ; 



Barclay of Ury. 295 



" Uiy's honest lord reviled, 
Mock of knave and sport of child, 
In his own good city ! 

Speak the word, and, master mine, 
As we charged on Tilly's line. 

And his Walloon lancers. 
Smiting through their midst we '11 teach 
Civil look and decent speech 

To these boyish prancers I " 

"Marvel not, mine ancient friend, 
Like beginning, like the end : " 

Quoth the Laird of Ury, 
" Is the sinful servant more 
Than his gracious Lord who bore 

Bonds and stripes in Jewiy ? 

" Give me joy that in his name 
I can bear, with patient frame. 

All these vain ones offer ; 
While for them He suffereth long, 
Shall I answer wrong with wrong. 

Scoffing with the scoffer ? 

" Happier I, with loss of all, 
Hunted, outlawed, held in thrall, 

With few friends to greet me. 
Than when reeve and squire were seen, 
Riding out from Aberdeen, 

With bared heads to meet me. 

" When each goodwife, o'er and o'er, 
Blessed me as I passed her door ; 

And the snooded daughter, 
Through her casement glancing down, 
Smiled on him who bore renown 

From red fields of slaughter. 

" Hard to feel the stranger's scoff, 
Hard the old friend's falling off, 

Hard to learn forgiving : 
But the Lord his own rewards. 
And his love with theirs accords. 

Warm and fresh and living. 



296 Miscellaneous, 



" Through this dark and stormy night 
Faith beholds a feeble light 

Up the blackness streaking ; 
Knowing God's own time is best, 
In a patient hope I rest 

For the full day-breaking !" 



So the Laird of Ury said, 
Turning slow his horse's head 

Towards the Tolbooth prison, 
Where, through iron grates, he heard 
Poor disciples of the Word 

Preach of Christ arisen ! 



Not in vain, Confessor old, 
Unto us the tale is told 

Of thy day of trial ; 
Ev^ery age on him, who strays 
From its broad and beaten ways, 

Pours its sevenfold vial. 



Happy he whose inward ear 
Angel comfortings can hear, 

O'er the rabble's laughter ; 
And while Hatred's fagots burn, 
Glimpses through the smoke discern 

Of the orood hereafter. 



Knowing this, that never yet 
Share of Truth was vainly set 

In the world's wide fallow; 
After hands shall sow the seed. 
After hands from hill and mead 

Reap the harvests yellow. 



Thus, with somewhat of the Seer, 
Must the moral pioneer 

From the Future borrow ; 
Clothe the waste with dreams of grain, 
And, on midnight's sky of rain, 

Paint the golden morrow ! 



What the Voice Said. 297 



WHAT THE VOICE SAID. 

Maddened by Earth's wrong and evil, 

" Lord !" I cried in sudden ire, 
" From thy right hand, clothed with thunder, 

Shake the bolted fire ! 

" Love is lost, and Faith is dying ; 

With the brute the man is sold ; 
And the dropping blood of labor 

Hardens into gold. 

*' Here the dying wail of Famine, 
There the battle's groan of pain ; 

And, in silence, smooth-faced Mammon 
Reaping men like grain. 

" ' Where is God, that we should fear Him T 
Thus the earth-born Titans say ; 

' God ! if thou art living, hear us! ' 
Thus the weak ones pray." 

" Thou, the patient Heaven upbraiding," 

Spake a solemn Voice within ; 
" Weary of our Lord's forbearance, 

Art thou free from sin ? 

" Fearless brow to Him uplifting, 
Canst thou for his thunders call, 

Knowing that to guilt's attraction 
Evermore they fall } 

" Know'st thou not all germs of evil 

In thy heart await their time } 
Not thyself, but God's restraining. 

Stays their growth of crime. 

" Couldst thou boast, O child of weakness ! 

O'er the sons of wrong and strife. 
Were their strong temptations planted 

In thy path of life } 

" Thou hast seen two streamlets gushing 
From one fountain, clear and free, 

But by widely varying channels 
Searching for the sea. 



298 Miscellaneous. 

" Glicleth one through greenest valleys, 
Kissing them with lips still sweet ; 

One, mad roaring down the mountains, 
Stagnates at their feet. 

" Is it choice whereby the Parsee 
Kneels before his mother's fire ? 

In his black tent did the Tartar 
Choose his wanderinsr sire ? 



" He alone, whose hand is bounding 
Human power and human will, 

Looking through each soul's surrounding, 
Knows its good or ill, 

" For thyself, while wrong and sorrow 
Make to thee their strong appeal, 

Coward wert thou not to utter 
What the heart must feel. 

" Earnest words must needs be spoken 
When the warm heart bleeds or l)urns 

With its scorn of wrong, or pity 
For the wronged, by turns. 

" But, by all thy nature's weakness. 
Hidden faults and follies known, 

Be thou, in rebuking evil, 
Conscious of thine own. 

" Not the less shall stern-eyed Duty 

To thy lips her trumpet set, 
But with harsher blasts shall mingle 

Wailings of regret." 

Cease not, Voice of holy speaking. 
Teacher sent of God, be near, 

Whispering through the day's cool silence. 
Let my spirit hear ! 

So, when thoughts of evil-doers 
Waken scorn, or hatred mo\'e. 

Shall a mournful fellow-feeling 
Temper all with love. 



Worship. 299 



TO DELAWARE. 

[Written during the discussion in the Legishuure of that State, in the winter of 
1846-47, of a bill for the abolition of slavery.] 

Thrice welcome to thy sisters of the East, 

To the strong- tillers of a rugged home, 
With spray-wet locks to Northern winds released, 

And hardy feet o'erswept by ocean's foam ; 
And to the young nymphs of the golden West, 

Whose harvest mantles, fringed with prairie bloom, 
Trail in the sunset, — O redeemed and blest, 

To the warm welcome of thy sisters come ! 
Broad Pennsylvania, down her sail-white bay 

Shall give thee joy, and Jersey from her plains, 
And the great lakes, where echoes, free alway, 

Moaned never shoreward with the clank of chains, 
Shall weave new sun-bows in their tossing spray. 
And all their waves keep grateful holiday. 
And, smiling on thee through her mountain rains, 

Vermont shall bless thee ; and the Granite peaks, 
And vast Katahdin o'er his woods, shall wear 
Their snow-crowns brighter in the cold keen air ; 

And Massachusetts, with her rugged cheeks 
O'errun with grateful tears, shall turn to thee, 

When, at thy bidding, the electric wire 

Shall tremble northward with its words of fire ; 
Glory and praise to God ! another State is free ! 

WORSHIP. 

" Pure religion, and undefiled, before God and the Father Is this: To visit the 
widows and the fatherless in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from 
the world."— y^wfj i. 27. 

The Pagan's myths through marble lips are spoken, 
And g-hosts of old Beliefs still tiit and moan 

Round fane and altar overthrown and broken, 
O'er tree-grown barrow and gray ring of stone. 

Blind Faith had martyrs in those old high places, 
The Syrian hill grove and the Druid's wood. 

With mother's offering to the Fiend's embraces. 
Bone of their bone, and blood of their own blood. 

Red altars, kindling through that night of error, 
Smoked with warm blood beneath the cruel eye 

Of lawless Power and sanguinary Terror, 
Throned on the circle of a pitiless sky ; 



300 Miscellaneous. 



Beneath whose baleful shadow, overcasting 
All heaven above, and blighting earth below. 

The scourge grew red, the lip grew pale with fasting, 
And man's oblation was his fear and woe ! 

Then through great temples swelled the dismal moaning 
Of dirge-like music and sepulchral prayer ; 

Pale wizard priests, o'er occult symbols droning, 
Swung their white censers in the burdened air : 

As if the pomp of rituals, and the savor 

Of gums and spices could the Unseen One please ; 

As if his ear could bend, with childish favor, 
To the poor flattery of the organ keys J 

Feet red from war-fields trod the church aisles holy, 
With trembling reverence : and the oppressor there. 

Kneeling before his priest, abased and lowly. 

Crushed human hearts beneath his knee of prayer. 

Not such the service the benignant Father 
Requireth at his earthly children's hands : 

Not the poor offering of vain rites, but rather 
The simple duty man from man demands. 

For Earth he asks it : the full joy of Heaven 
Knoweth no change of waning or increase ; 

The great heart of the Infinite beats even. 
Untroubled flows the river of his peace. 

He asks no taper lights, on high surrounding 

The priestly altar and the saintly grave. 
No dolorous chant nor organ music sounding, 

Nor incense clouding up the twilight nave. 

For he whom Jesus loved hath truly spoken : 
The holier worship which he deigns to bless 

Restores the lost, and binds the spirit broken, 
And feeds the widow and the fatherless! 

Types of our human weakness and our sorrow! 

Who lives unhaunted by his loved ones dead ? 
Who, with vain longing, seeketh not to jwrrow 

From stranger eyes the home lights which have fled } 



The Demon of the Study. 301 

O brother man ! fold to thy heart thy brother ; 

Where pity dwells, the peace of God is there ; 
To worship rightly is to love each other, 

Each smile a hymn, each kindly deed a prayer. 

Follow with reverent steps the great example 
Of Him whose holy work was " doing good ;" 

So shall the wide earth seem our Father's temple, 
Each loving life a psalm of gratitude. 

Then shall all shackles fall ; the stormy clangor 
Of wild war music o'er the earth shall cease ; 

Love shall tread out the baleful tire of anger, 
And in its ashes plant the tree of peace ! 



THE DEMON OF THE STUDY. 

The Brownie sits in the Scotchman's room, 
And eats his meat and drinks his ale. 

And beats the maid with her unused broom, 
And the lazy lout with his idle flail. 

But he sweeps the floor and threshes the corn. 

And hies him away ere the break of dawn. 

The shade of Denmark fled from the sun, 

And the Cocklane ghost from the barn-loft cheer, 

The fiend of Faust was a faithful one, 
Agrippa's demon wrought in fear, 

And the devil of Martin Luther sat 

By the stout monk's side in social chat. 

The Old Man of the Sea, on the neck of him 

Who seven times crossed the deep, 
Twined closely each lean and withered limb. 

Like the nightmare in one's sleep. 
But he drank of the wine, and Sindbad cast 
The evil weight from his back at last. 

But the demon that cometh day by day 

To my quiet room and fireside nook, 
Where the casement light falls dim and gray 

On faded painting and ancient book. 
Is a sorrier one than any whose names 
Are chronicled well by good King James, 



3 o 2 Miscellaneous . 



No bearer of burdens like Caliban, 

No runner of errands like Ariel, 
He comes in the shape of a fat old man. 

Without rap of knuckle or pull of bell ; 
And whence he comes, or whither he goes, 
I know as I do of the wind which blows. 

A stout old man with a greasy hat 

Slouched heavily down to his dark, red nose, 

And two gray eyes enveloped in fat, 

Looking through glasses with iron bows. 

Read ye, and heed ye, and ye who can. 

Guard well your doors from that old man ! 

He comes with a careless " How 
d'ye do ?" 
And seats himself in my el- 
bow-chair ; 
And my morning paper and 
pamphlet new 
Fall forthwith under his special 
care. 
And he wipes his glasses and 
clears his throat, 
And he wipes his glasses and And, button by button, unfolds 

his coat. 




clears his throat. 



And then he reads from paper and book, 
In alow and husky asthmatic tone. 

With the stolid sameness of posture and look 
Of one who reads to himself alone ; 

And hour after hour on my senses come 

That husky wheeze and that dolorous hum. 

The price of stocks, the auction sales. 
The poet's song and the lover's glee, 

The horrible murders, the seaboard gales, 
The marriage list, and thejeu iT esprit. 

All reach my ear in the self-same tone, — 

I shudder at each, but the fiend reads on ! 

O, sweet as the lapse of water at noon 
O'er the mossy roots of some forest tree. 

The sigh of the wind in the woods of June, 
Or sound of flutes o'er a moonlight sea, 

Or the low soft music, perchance, which seems 

To float through the slumbering singer's dreams, 



The Demon of the Study 



So sweet, so dear is the silvery tone, 

Of her in whose features I sometimes look, 

As I sit at eve by her side alone. 

And we read by turns from the self-same book,- 

Some tale perhaps of the olden time. 

Some lover's romance or quaint old rhyme. 

Then when the story is one of woe, — 

Some prisoner's plaint through his dungeon-bar, 
Her blue eye glistens with tears, and low 

Her voice sinks down like a moan afar ; 
And I seem to hear that prisoner's wail, 
And his face looks on me worn and pale. 

And when she reads some merrier song, 
Her voice is glad as an April bird's. 

And when the tale is of war and wrong, 
A trumpet's summons is in her words, 

And the rush of the hosts I seem to hear, 

And see the tossing of plume and spear ! — 

O, pity me then, when, day by day, 

The stout fiend darkens my parlor door: 

And reads me perchance the self-same lay 
Which melted in music, the night before, 

From lips as the lips of Hylas sweet. 

And moved like twin roses which zephyrs meet ! 

I cross my floor with a nervous tread, 
I whistle and laugh and sing and shout, 

I flourish my cane above his head. 
And stir up the fire to roast him out; 

I topple the chairs, and drum on the pane. 

And press my hands on my ears, in vain ! 

I've studied Glanville and James the wise. 
And wizard black-letter tomes which treat 

Of demons of every name and size. 

Which a Christian man is presumed to meet, 

But never a hint and never a line 

Can I find of a reading fiend like mine. 

I've crossed the Psalter with Brady and Tate, 
And laid the Prim.er above them all, 

I've nailed a horseshoe over the grate. 
And hung a wig to my parlor wall 



304 Miscellaneous. 



Once worn by a learned Judge, they say, 
At Salem court in the witclicraft day ! 

" Coiijuro te, sceleratissune, 

Abire ad tuu>n locu))i /" — still 
Like a visible nightmare he sits by me,— 

The exorcism has lost its skill ; 
And I hear again in my haunted room 
The husky wheeze and the dolorous hum ! 

Ah ! — commend me to Mary Magdalen 

With her sevenfold plagues, — to the wandering Jew, 
To the terrors which haunted Orestes when 

The furies his midnight curtains drew. 
But charm him off, ye who charm him can, 
That reading demon, that fat old man ! 



THE PUMPKIN. 

O, GREENLY and fair in the lands of the sun. 
The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, 
And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, 
With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold, 
Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew. 
While he waited to know that his warning was true. 
And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain 
For the rush of the whirlwind and red hre-rain. 

On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden 
Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden ; 
And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold 
Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold ; 
Yet wdth dearer delight from his home in the North, 
On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth. 
Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines, 
And the sun of September melts down on his vines. 

Ah ! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, 
From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest, 
When the gray-haired New-Englander sees round his board 
The old broken links of affection restored, 
When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, 
And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, 
What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye ? 
What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie ? 



Extract from ' ' A New England Lc^^cnd. ' ' 305 

O, —fruit loved of boyhood ! — the old days recalling, 

When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were 

falling ! 
When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, 
Glaring out through the dark with a candle within ! 
When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in 

tune. 
Our chair a broad pumpkin. — our lantern the moon, 
Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam, 
In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team! 




Our chaik a bkoau pumpkin. 

Then thanks for thy present !— none sweeter or better 
E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! 
Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, 
Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine ! 
And the prayer, w'hich my mouth is too full to express. 
Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less. 
That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below% 
And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow, 
And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky 
Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie ! 



EXTRACT FROM " A NEW ENGLAND LEGEND. 



How has New England's romance fied, 
Even as a vision of the morning ! 

Its rights foredone, — its guardians dead, — 

Its priestesses, bereft of dread, 

\Vaking the veriest urchin's scorning ! 



3o6 Miscellaneous, 



Gone like the Indian wizard's yell 

And fire-dance round the magic rock, 
Forgotten like the Druid's spell 

At moonrise by his holy oak ! 
No more along the shadowy glen, 
Glide the dim ghosts of murdered men ; 
No more the unquiet churchyard dead 
Glimpse upward from their turfy bed, 

Startling the traveller, late and lone ; 
As, on some night of starless weather, 
They silently commune together. 

Each sitting on his own head-stone ! 
The roofless house, decayed, deserted, 
Its living tenants all departed, 
No longer rings with midnight revel 
Of witch, or ghost, or goblin evil ; 
No pale blue flame sends out its flashes 
Througli creviced roof and shattered sashes !— 
The witch-grass round the hazel spring 
May sharply to the night-air sing, 
But there no more shall withered hags 
Refresh at ease their broomstick nags, 
Or taste those hazel-shadowed waters 
As beverage meet for Satan's daughters ; 
No more their mimic tones be heard, — 
The mew of cat, — the chirp of bird, — 
Shrill blending with the hoarser laughter 
Of the fell demon following after ! 
The cautious goodman nails no more 
A horseshoe on his outer door. 
Lest some unseemly hag should fit 
To his own mouth her bridle-bit, — 
The goodwife's churn no more refuses 
Its wonted culinary uses 
Until, with heated needle burned. 
The witch has to her place returned ! 
Our witches are no longer old 
And wrinkled beldames, Satan-sold, 
But young and gay and laughing creatures. 
With the heart's sunshine on their features,— 
Their sorcery — the light which dances 
Where the raised lid unveils its glances ; 
Or that low-breathed and gentle tone, 

The music of Love's twilight hours, 
Soft, dream-like, as a fairy's moan 

Above her nightly closing flowers. 
Sweeter than that which sighed of yore 
Alonff the charmed Ausonian shore ! 







k 




Our witches are no longer old. 



3o8 Miscellaneous. 



Even she, our own weird heroine, 
Sole Pythoness of ancient Lynn, 

Sleeps calmly where the living laid her ; 
And the wide realm of sorcery. 
Left by its latest mistress free. 

Hath found no gray and skilled invader 
So perished Albion's " glammarye," 

With him in Melrose Abbey sleeping, 
His charmed torch beside his knee, 
That even the dead himself might see 

The magic scroll within his keeping, 
And now our modern Yankee sees 
Nor omens, spells, nor mysteries ; 
And naught above, below, around. 
Of life or death, of sight or sound, 

Whate'er its nature, form, or look, 
Excites his terror or surprise, — 
All seeming to his knowing eyes 
Familiar as his " catechize," 

Or " Webster's Spelling-Book." 



HAMPTON BEACH. 

The sunlight glitters keen and bright, 

Where, miles away. 
Lies stretching to my dazzled sight 
A luminous belt, a misty light, 
Beyond the dark pine bluffs and wastes of sandy gray. 

The tremulous shadow of the Sea ! 

Against its ground 
Of silvery light, rock, hill, and tree. 
Still as a picture, clear and free, 
With varying outline mark the coast for miles around. 

On — on — we tread with loose-flung rein 

Our seaward way. 
Through dark-green fields and blossoming grain. 
Where the wild brier-rose skirts the lane. 
And bends above our heads the flowering locust spray. 

Ha ! like a kind hand on my brow 

Comes this fresh breeze, 
Cooling its dull and feverish glow. 
While through my being seems to flow 
The breath of a new life, — the healing of the seas ! 



Hampton Beach. 309 



Now rest we, where this grassy mound 

His feet hath set 
In the great waters, which have bound 
His granite ankles greenly round 
With long and tangled moss, and weeds with cool spray wet. 

Good-by to pain and care ! I take 

Mine ease to-day : 
Here where these sunny waters break, 
And ripples this keen breeze, I shake 
All burdens from the heart, all weary thoughts away. 

I draw a freer breath — I seem 

Like all I see — 
Waves in the sun — the white-winged gleam 
Of sea-birds in the slanting beam — 
And far-off sails which flit before the south-wind free. 

So when Time's veil shall fall asunder. 

The soul may know 
No fearful change, nor sudden wonder, 
Nor sink the weight of mystery under. 
But with the upward rise, and with the vastness grow. 

And all we shrink from now may seem 

No new revealing ; 
Familiar as our childhood's stream, 
Or pleasant memory of a dream 
The loved and cherished Past upon the new life stealing. 

Serene and mild the untried light 

May have its dawning ; 
And, as in summer's northern night 
The evening and the dawn unite. 
The sunset hues of Time blend with the soul's new morning. 

I sit alone ; in foam and spray 

Wave after wave 
Breaks on the rocks which, stern and gray. 
Beneath like fallen Titans lay. 
Or murmurs hoarse and strong through mossy cleft ar d cave. 

What heed I of the dusty land 

And noisy town ? 
I see the mighty deep expand 
From its white line of glimmering sand 
To where the blue of heaven on bluer waves shuts down ! 



3IO 



Miscellaneous. 




In foam and spray wave after wave breaks 
on the rocks. 



Bends like an arch of fire iht 



In listless quietude of 

mind, 
I yield to all 
The change of cloud 

and wa\'e and wind 
And passive on the flood 

reclined, 
I wander with the waves, 

and with them rise 

and fall. 

But look, thou dreamer ! 
— wave and shore 
In shadow lie ; 
The night-wind warns 
me back once more 
To where, my native 
hill-tops o'er, 
glowing sunset sky. 



So then, beach, bluff, and wave, farewell ! 

I bear with me 
No token stone nor glittering shell. 
But long and oft shall Memory tell 
Of this brief thoughtful hour of musing by the Sea. 



LINES, 

WRITTEN ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF SILAS WRIGHT 
OF NEW YORK, 



As they who, tossing midst the storm at night, 
While turning shoreward, where a beacon shone, 
Meet the walled blackness of the heaven alone, 
So, on the turbulent waves of party tossed, 
In gloom and tempest, men have seen thy light 

Quenched in the darkness. At thy hour of noon. 
While life was pleasant to thy undimmed sight. 
And, day by day, within thy spirit grew 
A holier hope than young Ambition knew. 
As through thy rural quiet, not in vain. 
Pierced the sharp thrill of Freedom's cry of pain, 

Man of the millions, thou art lost too soon ! 
Portents at which the bravest stand aghast, — 
The birth-throes of a Future, strange and vast. 
Alarm the land ; yet thou, so wise and strong. 



Lines. 311 

Suddenly summoned to the burial bed, 

Lapped in its slumbers deep and ever long, 

Hear'st not the tumult surging overhead. 

Who now shall rally Freedom's scattering host? 

Who wear the mantle of the leader lost ? 

Who stay the march of slavery ? He whose voice 
Hath called thee from thy task-field shall not lack 
Yet bolder champions, to beat bravely back 

The wrong which, through his poor ones, reaches Him : 

Yet firmer hands shall Freedom's torchlights trim, 
And wave them high across the abysmal black, 

Till bound, dumb millions there shall see them and rejoice. 

ioth mo.^ 1847. 

LINES, 

ACCOMPANYING MANUSCRIPTS PRESENTED TO A FRIEND. 

'T IS said that in the Holy Land 

The angels of the place have blessed 

The pilgrim's bed of desert sand, 
Like Jacob's stone of rest. 

That down the hush of Syrian skies 

Some sweet-voiced saint at twilight sings 

The song whose holy symphonies 
Are beat by unseen wings ; 

Till starting from his sandy bed, 

The w-ayworn wanderer looks to see 

The halo of an angel's head 

Shine through the tamarisk-tree. 

So through the shadow^s of my way 
Thy smile hath fallen soft and clear, 

So at the weary close of day 

Hath seemed thy voice of cheer. 

That pilgrim pressing to his goal 

May pause not for the vision's sake. 
Yet all fair things within his soul 
• The thought of it shall wake : 

The graceful palm-tree by the well. 

Seen on the far horizon's rim ; 
The dark eyes of the fleet gazelle, 

Bent timidly on him ; 



312 Miscellaneous. 



Each pictured saint, whose golden hair 

Streams sunhke through the convent's gloom 

Pale shrines of martyrs young and fair, 
And loving" Mary's tomb ; 

And thus each tint or shade which falls, 
From sunset cloud or waving tree, 

Along my pilgrim path, recalls 
The pleasant thought of thee. 

Of one in sun and shade the same, 
In weal and woe my steady friend, 

Whatever by that holy name 
The angels comprehend. 

Not blind to faults and follies, thou 
Hast never failed the good to see, 

Nor judged by one unseemly bough 
The upward-struggling tree. 

These light leaves at thy feet I lay, — 

Poor common thoughts on common things, 

Which time is shaking, day by day, 
Like feathers from his wings, — 

Chance shootings from a frail life-tree, 
To nurturing care but little known. 

Their good was partly learned of thee, 
Their folly is my own. 

That tree still clasps the kindly mould. 
Its leaves still drink the twilight dew. 

And weaving its pale green with gold, 
Still shines the sunlight through. 

There still the morning zephyrs play. 

And there at times the spring bird sings. 

And mossy trunk and fading spray 
Are flowered with glossy wings. 

Yet, even in genial sun and rain. 

Root, branch, and leaflet fail and fade ; 

The wanderer on its lonely plain 
Erelong shall miss its shade. 



The Reivard. 313 



O friend beloved, whose curious skill 

Keeps bright the last year's leaves and flowers, 

With warm, glad summer thoughts to till 
The cold, dark, winter hours ! 

Pressed on thy heart, the leaves I bring 

May well defy the wintry cold. 
Until, in Heaven's eternal spring, 

Life's fairer ones unfold. 



THE REWARD. 

Who, looking backward from his manhood's prime, 
Sees not the spectre of his misspent time ? 

And, through the shade 
Of funeral cypress planted thick behind. 
Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind 

From his loved dead ? 

Who bears no trace of passion's evil force } 
Who shuns thy sting, O terrible Remorse.'* — 

\Vho does not cast 
On the thronged pages of his memory's book, 
At times, a sad and half-reluctant look. 

Regretful of the past } 

Alas ! — the evil which we fain would shun 

We do, and leave the wished-for good undone : 

Our strength to-day 
Is but to-morrow's weakness, prone to fall ; 
Poor, blind, unprofitable servants all 

Are we alway. 

Yet who, thus looking backward o'er his years. 
Feels not his eyelids wet with grateful tears, 

If he hath been 
Permitted, weak and sinful as he was. 
To cheer and aid, in some ennobling cause. 

His fellow-men ? 

If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in 
A ray of sunshine to the cell of sin, — 

If he hath lent 
Strength to the weak, and, in an hour of need. 
Over the suffering, mindless of his creed 

Or home, hath bent. 



314 Miscellaneous. 



He has not lived in vain, and while he gives 
The praise to Him, in whom he moves and lives. 

With thankful heart ; 
He gazes backward, and with hope before, 
Knowing that from his works he nevermore 

Can henceforth part. 



RAPHAEL. 

I SHALL not soon forget that sight : 
The glow of autumn's westering day, 

A hazy warmth, a dreamy light, 
On Raphael's picture lay. 

It was a simple print I saw. 

The fair face of a musing boy ; 
Yet, while I gazed, a sense of awe 

Seemed blending with my joy. 

A simple print :— the graceful flow 
Of boyhood's soft and wavy hair. 

And fresh young lip and cheek, and brow 
Unmarked and clear, were there. 

Yet through its sweet and calm repose 

I saw the inward spirit shine ; 
It was as if before me rose 

The white veil of a shrine. 

As if, as Gothland's sage has told, 
The hidden life, the man within, 

Dissevered from its frame and mould, 
By mortal eye were seen. 

Was it the lifting of that eye. 

The waving of that pictured hand ? 

Loose as a cloud-wreath on the sky, 
I saw the walls expand. 

The narrow room had vanished, — space, 
Broad, luminous, remained alone, 

Through which all hues and shapes of grace 
And beauty looked or shone. 



Raphael. 315 



Around the mighty master came 

The marvels which his pencil wrought, 

Those miracles of power whose fame 
Is wide as human thought. 

There drooped thy more than mortal face, 

O Mother, beautiful and mild ! 
Enfolding in one dear embrace 

Thy Saviour and thy Child ! 

The rapt brow of the Desert John ; 

The awful glory of that day 
When all the Father's brightness shone 

Through manhood's veil of clay. 

And, midst gray prophet forms, and wild 
Dark visions of the days of old, 

How sweetly woman's beauty smiled 
Through locks of brown and gold ! 

There Fornarina's fair young face 
Once more upon her lover shone, 

Whose model of an angel's grace 
He borrowed from her own. 

Slow passed that vision from my view, 
But not the lesson which it taught ; 

The soft, calm shadows which it threw 
Still rested on my thought : 

The truth, that painter, bard, and sage, 
Even in Earth's cold and changeful clime, 

Plant for their deathless heritage 
The fruits and Howers of time. 

We shape ourselves the joy or fear 
Of which the coming life is made, 

And fill our Future's atmosphere 
With sunshine or with shade. 

The tissue of the Life to be 

We weave with colors all our own, 

And in the field of Destiny 
We reap as we have sown* 



3i6 Miscellaneous. 



Still shall the soul around it call 

The shadows which it gathered here, 

And, p:jnted on the eternal wall, 
The past shall reappear. 

Think ye the notes of holy song- 
On Milton's tuneful ear have died ? 

Think ye that Raphael's angel throng 
Has vanished from his side ? 

O no ! — We live our lif£ again ; 

Or warmly touched, or coldly dim, 
The pictures of the Past remain, — 

Man's works shall follow him ! 



LUCY HOOPER." 

They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, — 

That all of thee we loved and cherished 
Has with thy summer roses perished ; 

And left, as its young beauty fled, 

An ashen memory in its stead, — 
The twilight of a parted day 

Whose fading light is cold and vain ; 
The heart's faint echo of a strain 

Of low, sweet music passed away. 
That true and loving heart,— that gift 

Of a mind, earnest, clear, profound. 
Bestowing, with a glad unthrift. 

Its sunny light on all around, 
Affinities which only could 
Cleave to the pure, the true, and good ; 

And sympathies which found no rest, 

Save with the loveliest and best. 
Of them — of thee — remains there naught 

But sorrow in the mourner's breast.^ — 
A shadow in the land of thought ? 
No ! — Even my weak and trembling faith 

Can lift for thee the veil which doubt 

And human fear have drawn about 
The all-awaiting scene of death. 

Even as thou wast I see thee still ; 
And, save the absence of all ill 
And pain and weariness, which here 
Summoned the sigh or wrung the tear, 



Lucy Hooper. 



317 




The same as when, two summers back, 
Beside our childhood's Merrimack, 
I saw thy dark eye wander o'er 
Stream, sunny upland, rocky shore, 
And heard thy low, soft voice alone 
Midst lapse of waters, and the tone 
Of pine-leaves by the" west-wind blown. 
There 's not a charm of soul or brow, — 

Of all we knew and loved in thee, — 
But lives in holier beauty now, 

Baptized in immortality ! 
Not mine the sad and freezing dream 
Of souls that, with their earthly mould. 
Cast off the loves and joys of old, — 
Unbodied, — like a pale moonbeam, 

As pure, as passionless, and cold ; 
Nor mine the hope of Indra's son. 
Of slumbering- in oblivion's rest, 
Life's myriads blending into one, — 
In blank annihilation blest ; 

Dust-atoms of the infinite, — 

Sparks scattered from the central light. 

And winning back through mortal pain 

Their old unconsciousness again. 

No I — I have FRIENDS in Spirit Land, — 

Not shadows in a shadowy band. 

Not others, but themselves are they. 
And still I think of them the same 
As when the Master's summons came ; 
Their change, — the holy morn-light breaking 
Upon the dream-worn sleeper, waking, — 
A change from twilight into day. 



The heart's faint echo 
of a strain of low, 
sweet music passed 

AWAY. 



They 've laid thee midst the household graves, 
Where father, brother, sister lie; 

Below thee sweep the dark blue waves, 
Above thee bends the summer sky. 

Thy own loved church in sadness read 

Her solemn ritual o'er thy head, 

And blessed and hallowed with her prayer 

The turf laid lightly o'er thee there. 

That church, whose rites and liturgy, 

Sublime and old, were truth to thee, 

Undoubted to thy bosom taken. 

As symbols of a faith unshaken. 

Even I, of simpler views, could feel 



31' 



Miscellaucoiis. 



The beauty of thy trust and zeal ; 
And, owning not thy creed, could see 
How deep a truth it seemed to thee, 
And how thy fervent heart had thrown 
O'er all, a coloring of its own. 
And kindled up, intense and warm, 
A life in every rite and form. 
As, when on Chebar's banks of old. 
The Hebrew's gorgeous vision rolled, 
A spirit filled the vast machine, — 
A life ' within the wheels" was seen. 

Farewell ! A little time, and we 

Who knew thee well, and loved thee here. 
One after one shall follow thee 

As pilgrims through the gate of fear. 
Which opens on eternity. 
Yet shall we cherish not the less 

All that is left our hearts meanwhile ; 
The memory of thy loveliness 

Shall round our weary pathway smile. 
Like moonlight when the sun has set, — 
A sweet and tender radiance yet. 
Thoughts of thy clear-eyed sense of duty. 

Thy generous scorn of all things wrong, — 
The truth, the strength, the graceful beauty 

Which blended in thy song. 
All lovely things, by thee beloved, 

Shall whisper to our hearts of thee ; 
These green hills, where thy childhood roved,- 

Yon river winding to the sea, — 
The sunset light of autumn eves 

Reflecting on the deep, still floods. 
Cloud, crimson sky, and trembling leaves 

Of rainbow-tinted woods, — 
These, in our view, shall henceforth take 
A tenderer meaning for thy sake ; 
And all thou loved st of earth and sky. 
Seem sacred to thy memory. 



CHANNING.''^ 

Not vainly did old poets tell, 
Nor vainly did old genius paint 

God's great and crowning miracle,- 
The hero and the saint ! 



Chafining. 319 



For even in a faithless day 

Can we our sainted ones discern ; 
And feel, while with them on the way, 

Our hearts within us burn. 

And thus the common tongue and pen 

Which, world-wide, echo Channing's fame, 

As one of Heaven's anointed men, 
Have sanctified his name. 

In vain shall Rome her portals bar, 
And shut from him her saintly prize, 

Whom, in the world's great calendar, 
All men shall canonize. 

By Narragansett's sunny bay. 

Beneath his green embowering wood. 

To me it seems but yesterday 
Since at his side I stood. 



The slopes lay green with summer rains, 
The western wind blew fresh and free. 

And glimmered down the orchard lanes 
The white surf of the sea. 



With us was one, who, calm and true. 
Life's highest purpose understood. 

And, like his blessed Master, knew 
The joy of doing good. 

Unlearned, unknown to lettered fame. 
Yet on the lips of England's poor 

And toiling millions dwelt his name, 
With blessing-s evermore. 



Unknown to power or place, yet where 
The sun looks o'er the Carib sea. 

It blended with the freeman's prayer 
And song of jubilee. 

He told of England's sin and wrong, — 
The ills her suffering children know, 

The squalor of the city's throng, — 
The green field's want and woe. 



320 MisceUaneous. 

O'er Channing's face the tenderness 

Of sympathetic sorrow stole, 
Like a still shadow, passionless, — 

The sorrow of the soul. 

But when the generous Briton told 

How hearts were answering" to his own. 

And Freedom's rising murmur rolled 
Up to the dull-eared throne, 

I saw, methought, a glad surprise 

Thrill through that frail and pain-worn frame, 

And, kindling in those deep, calm eyes, 
A still and earnest flame. 

His few, brief words were such as move 
The human heart, — the Faith-sown seeds 

Which ripen in the soil of love 
To high heroic deeds. 

No bars of sect or clime were felt. — 

The Babel strife of tongues had ceased, — 

And at one common altar knelt 
The Quaker and the priest. 

And not in vain : with strength renewed, 
And zeal refreshed, and hope less dim, 

For that brief meeting, each pursued 
The path allotted him. 

How echoes yet each Western hill 

And vale with Channing's dying word ! 

How are the hearts of freemen still 
By that great warning stirred ! 

The stranger treads his native soil. 
And pleads, with zeal unfelt before 

The honest right of British toil. 
The claim of England's poor. 

Before him time-wrought barriers fall, 
Old fears subside, old hatreds melt. 

And, stretching o'er the sea's blue wall, 
The Saxon greets the Celt. 



To the Memory of Charles B. Storrs. 321 



The yeoman on the Scottish Hnes, 

The Sheffield grinder, worn and grim, 

The delver in the Cornwall mines, 
Look up with hope to him. 

Swart smiters of the glowing steel. 
Dark feeders of the forge's flame, 

Pale watchers at the loom and wheel, 
Repeat his honored name. 

And thus the influence of that hour 
Of converse on Rhode Island's strand 

Lives in the calm, resistless power 
Which moves our father-land. 

God blesses still the generous thought. 
And still the fitting word He speeds, 

And Truth, at his requiring taught. 
He quickens into deeds. 

Where is the victory of the grave ? 

What dust upon the spirit lies ? 
God keeps the sacred life he gave, — 

The prophet never dies ! 

TO THE MEMORY OF 

CHARLES B. STORRS, 

LATE PRESIDENT OF WESTERN RESERVE COLLEGE. 

Thou hast fallen in thine armor, 

Thou martyr of the Lord ! 
With thy last breath crying, — " Onward !" 

And thy hand upon the sword. 
The haughty heart derideth. 

And the sinful lip reviles. 
But the blessing of the perishing 

Around thy pillow smiles ! 

When to our cup of trembling 

The added drop is given, 
And the long-suspended thunder 

Falls terribly from Heaven, — 
When a new and fearful freedom 

Is proffered of the Lord 
To the slow-consuming Famine, — 

The Pestilence and Sword ! — 



32 2 Miscellaneous. 



When the refuges of Falsehood 

Shall be swept away in wrath, 
And the temple shall be shaken, 

With its idol, to the earth,— 
Shall not thy words of warning 

Be all remembered then ? 
And thy now unheeded message 

Burn in the hearts of men ? 



Oppression's hand may scatter 

Its nettles on thy tomb, 
And even Christian bosoms 

Deny thy memory room : 
For lying lips shall torture 

Thy mercy into crime. 
And the slanderer shall flourish 

As the bay-tree for a time. 



But where the south-wind lingers 

On Carolina's pines. 
Or falls the careless sunbeam 

Down Georgia's golden mines,— 
Where now beneath his burthen 

The toiling slave is driven, — 
Where now a tyrant's mockery 

Is offered unto Heaven, — 



Where Mammon hath its altars 

Wet o'er with human blood, 
And pride and lust debases 

The workmanship of God, — 
There shall thy praise be spoken. 

Redeemed from Falsehood's ban, 
When the fetters shall be broken. 

And the slave shall be a man I 



Joy to thy spirit, brother ! 

A thousand hearts are warm, — 
A thousand kindred bosoms 

Are baring to the storm. 
What though red-handed Violence 

With secret Fraud combine.^ 
The wall of hre is round us, — 

Our Present Help was thine. 



Lines. t^2t^ 

Lo, — the waking up of nations, 

From Slavery's fatal sleep, — 
The murmur of a Universe, — 

Deep calling unto Deep ! 
Joy to thy spirit, brother ! 

On every wind of heaven 
The onward cheer and summons 

Of Freedom's voice is given ! 

Glory to God forever ! 

Beyond the despot's will 
The soul of Freedom liveth 

Imperishable still. 
The words which thou hast uttered 

Are of that*soul a part. 
And the good seed thou hast scattered 

Is springing from the heart. 

In the evil days before us, 

And the trials yet to come, — 
In the shadow of the prison, 

Or the cruel martyrdom, — 
We will think of thee, O brother ! 

And thy sainted name shall be 
In the blessing of the captive. 

And the anthem of the free. 
1834. 



LINES, < 

ON THE DEATH OF S. OLIVER TORREYo 

Gone before us, O our brother, 

To the spirit-land ! 
Vainly look we for another 

In thy place to stand. 
Who shall offer youth and beauty 

On the wasting shrine 
Of a stern and lofty duty. 

With a faith like thine } 

O, thy gentle smile of greeting 

Who again shall see } 
Who amidst the solemn meeting 

Gaze again on thee ? — 



324 



Miscellaneous. 



Who, when peril gathers o'er us, 

Wear so cahn a brow ? 
Who, with evil men before us. 

So serene as thou ? 

Early hath the spoiler found thee, 

Brother of our love ! 
Autumn's faded earth around thee, 

And its storms above ! 
Evermore that turf lie lightly. 

And, with future showers. 
O'er thy slumbers fresh and brightly 

Blow the summer flowers ! 

In the locks thy forehead gracing, 

Not a silvery streak ; 
Nor a line of sorrow's tracing 

On thy fair young cheek ; 
Eyes of light and lips of roses, 

Such as Hylas wore, — 
Over all that curtain closes, 

Which shall rise no more ! 

Will the vigil Love is keeping 

Round that grave of thine, 
Mournfully, like Jazer weeping 

Over Sibmah's vine,'*'^ — 
Will the pleasant memories, swelling 

Gentle hearts, of thee, 
In the spirit's distant dwelling 

All unheeded be ? 



If the spirit ever gazes, 

From its journeyings, back ; 
If the immortal ever traces 

O'er its mortal track ; 
Wilt thou not, O brother, meet us 

Sometimes on our way, 
And, in hours of sadness, greet us 

As a spirit may ? 

Peace be with thee, O our brother, 

In the spirit-land ! 
Vainly look we for another 

In thy place to stand. 



A Lame Jit. 



325 



Unto Truth and Freedom giving 

All thy early powers, 
Be thy virtues with the living, 

And thy spirit ours ! 



A LAxMENT. 




"The parted spirit, 
Knoweth it not our sorrow ? Answereth not 
Its blessing to our tears ?" 



The circle is broken, — one seat 

is forsaken, — 
One bud from the tree of our 

friendship is shaken, — 
One heart from among us no 

longer shall thrill 
With joy in our gladness, or 

grief in our ill. 

Weep ! — lonely and lowly are 

slumbering now 
The light of her glances, the 
pride of her brow- 



Weep 



idly and long 



The circle is broken, — one bud from 
the tree of our friendship is 

SHAKEN. 



shall we listen in vain 
To hear the soft tones of 
her welcome again. 



Give our tears to the dead 
For humanity's claim 
From its silence and darkness is ever the same ; 
The hope of that World w^hose existence is bliss 
Mav not stifle the tears of the mourners of this. 



For, oh ! if one glance the freed spirit can throw 
On the scene of its troubled probation below. 
Than the pride of the marble, the Domp of the dead, 
To that glance will be dearer the tears which we shed. 



O, who can forget the mild light of her smile, 
Over lips moved with music and feeling the while — 
The eye's deep enchantment, dark, dream-like, and clear, 
In the glow of its gladness, the shade of its tear. 



326 Miscella neons. 



And the charm of her features, while over the whole 
Played the hues of the heart and the sunshine of soul, — 
And the tones of her voice, like the music which seems 
Murmured low in our ears by the Angel of dreams ! 

But holier and dearer our memories hold 

Those treasures of feeling, more precious than gold, — 

The love and the kindness and pity which gave 

Fresh flowers for the bridal, green wreaths for the grave ! 

The heart ever open to Charity's claim. 
Unmoved from its purpose by censure and blame, 
While vainly alike on her eye and her ear 
Fell the scorn of the heartless, the jesting and jeer. 

How true to our hearts was that beautiful sleeper ! 
With smiles for the joyful, with tears for the weeper ! — 
Yet, evermore prompt, whether mournful or gay, 
With warnings in love to the passing astray. 

For, though spotless herself, she could sorrow for them 
Who sullied with evil the spirit's pure gem ; 
And a sigh or a tear could the erring reprove. 
And the sting of reproof was still tempered by love. 

As a cloud of the sunset, slow melting in heaven. 
As a star that is lost when the daylight is given. 
As a glad dream of slumber, which wakens in bliss, 
She hath passed to the world of the holy from this. 



DANIEL WHEELER. 



[Daniel Wheeler, a minister of the Society of Friends, and who had labored in 
the cause of his Divine Master in Great Britain, Russia, and the islands of the 
Pacific, died in New York in the spring of 1840, while on a religious v-isit to this 
country ] 

O DEARLY loved ! 
And worthy of our love ! — No more 
Thy aged form shall rise before 
The hushed and waiting worshipper, 
In meek obedience utterance giving 
To words of truth, so fresh and living, 
That, even to the inward sense. 
They bore unquestioned evidence 
Of an anointed Messenger ! 



Daniel Wheeler. 327 



Or, bowing- down thy silver hair 
In reverent awfulness of prayer, — 

The world, its time and sense, shut out,- 
The brightness of Faith's holy trance 
Gathered upon thy countenance, 

As if each lingering cloud of doubt, — 
The cold, dark shadows resting here 
In Time's unluminous atmosphere, — 

Were lifted by an angel's hand, 
And through them on thy spiritual eye 
Shone down the blessedness on high, 

The glory of the Better Land ! 

The oak has fallen ! 
While, meet for no good work, the vine 
May yet its worthless branches twine. 
Who knoweth not that with thee fell 
A great man in our Israel ? 
Fallen, while thy loins were girded still. 

Thy feet with Zion's dews still wet. 

And in thy hand retaining yet 
The pilgrim's staff and scallop-shell ! 
Unharmed and safe, where, wild and free, 

Across the Neva's cold morass 
The breezes from the Frozen Sea 

With winter's arrowy keenness pass ; 
Or where the unwarning tropic gale 
Smote to the waves thy tattered sail. 
Or where the noon-hour's fervid heat 
Against Tahiti's mountains beat ; 

The same mysterious Hand which gave 

Deliverance upon land and wave. 
Tempered for thee the blasts which blew 

Ladaga's frozen surface o'er, 
And blessed for thee the baleful dew 

Of evening upon Eimeo's shore. 
Beneath this sunny heaven of ours. 
Midst our soft airs and opening flowers 

Hath given thee a grave ! 

His will be done. 
Who seeth not as man, whose way 

Is not as ours ! — 'T is well with thee ! 
Nor anxious doubt nor dark dismay 
Disquieted thy closing day, 
But, evermore, thy soul could say, 

" My Father careth still for me !" 



328 



Miscellaneous. 



Called from thy hearth and home, — from her. 

The last bud on thy household tree, 
The last dear one to minister 

In duty and in love to thee, 
From all which nature holdeth dear. 

Feeble with years and worn with pain, 

To seek our distant land again, 
Bound in the spirit, yet unknowing- 
The things which should befall thee here, 

Whether for labor or for death. 
In childlike trust serenely going 

To that last trial of thy faith ! 

O, far away, 
Where never shines our Northern star 

On that dark waste which Balboa saw 
From Darien's mountains stretching far. 
So strange, heaven-broad, and lone, that there, 
With forehead to its damp wind bare, 

He bent his mailed knee in awe ; 
In many an isle whose coral feet 
The surges of that ocean beat. 
In thy palm shadows, Oahu, 

And Honolulu's silver bay. 
Amidst Ow}^hee's hills of blue. 

And taro-plains of Tooboonai, 
Are gentle hearts, which long shall be 
Sad as our own at thought of thee, — 
Worn sowers of Truth's holy seed, 
Whose souls in weariness and need 
W^ere strengthened and refreshed by thine. 
For blessed by our Father's hand 

Was thy deep love and tender care. 

Thy ministry and fervent prayer, — 
Grateful as Eschol's clustered vine 
To Israel in a weary land ! 

And they who drew 
By thousands round thee, in the hour 
Of prayerful waiting, hushed and deep. 
That He who bade the islands keep 
Silence before him, might renew 
Their strength with his unslumbering power, 
They too shall mourn that thou art gone, 

That nevermore thy aged lip 
Shall soothe the weak, the errine" warn. 



Da?iiel Wheeler. 329 



Of those who first, rejoicing, heard 
Through thee the Gospel's glorious word,— 

Seals of thy true apostleship. 
And, if the brightest diadem. 

Whose gems of glory purely burn 

Around the ransomed ones in bliss. 
Be evermore reserved for them 

Who here, through toil and sorrow, turn 

Many to righteousness, — 
May we not think of thee as wearing 
That star-like crown of light, and bearing, 
Amidst Heaven's white and blissful band, 
The fadeless palm-branch in thy hand ; 
And joining with a seraph's tongue 
In that new song the elders sung, 
Ascribing to its blessed Giver 
Thanksgiving, love, and praise forever ! 

Farewell ! 
And though the ways of Zion mourn 
When her strong ones are called away, 
Who like thyself have calmly borne 
The heat and burden of the day, 
Yet He who slumbereth not nor sleepeth 
His ancient watch around us keepeth ; 
Still, sent from his creating hand. 
New witnesses for Truth shall stand, — 
New instruments to sound abroad 
The Gospel of a risen Lord ; 

To gather to the fold once more 
The desolate and gone astray. 
The scattered of a cloudy day. 

And Zion's broken walls restore ; 
And, through the travail and the toil 

Of true obedience, minister 
Beauty for ashes, and the oil 

Of joy for mourning, unto her ! 
So shall her holy bounds increase 
With walls of praise and gates of peace 
So shall the Vine, which martyr tears 
And blood sustained in other years. 

With fresher life be clothed upon; 
And to the world in beauty show 
Like the rose-plant of Jericho, 

And glorious as Lebanon ! 



330 Miscellaneous. 



DANIEL NEALL. 
I. 

Friend of the Slave, and yet the friend of all ; 

Lover of peace, yet ever foremost when 

The need of battling Freedom called for men 
To plant the banner on the outer wall ; 
Gentle and kindly, ever at distress 
Melted to more than woman's tenderness, 
Yet firm and steadfast, at his duty's post 
Fronting the violence of a maddened host. 
Like some gray rock from which the waves are tossed ! 
Knowing his deeds of love, men questioned not 

The faith of one whose walk and word were right, — 
Who tranquilly in Life's great task-field wrought, 
And, side by side with evil, scarcely caught 

A stain upon his pilgrim garb of white : 
Prompt to redress another's wrong, his own 
Leaving to Time and Truth and Penitence alone. 

II. 

Such was our friend. Formed on the good old plan, 

A true and brave and downright honest man ! — 

He blew no trumpet in the market-place, 

Nor in the church with hypocritic face 

Supplied with cant the lack of Christian grace ; 

Loathing pretence, he did with cheerful will 

What others talked of while their hands were still; 

And, while " Lord, Lord !" the pious tyrants cried, 

Who, in the poor, their Master crucified. 

His daily prayer, far better understood 

In acts than words, was simply DOING GOOD. 

So calm, so constant was his rectitude, 

That by his loss alone we know its worth. 

And feel how true a man has walked with us on earth. 

tth 6th month, 1846. 

TO MY FRIEND ON THE DEATH OF HIS SISTER.'' 

Thine is a grief, the depth of which another 

May never know ; 
Yet, o'er the waters, O my stricken brother ! 

To thee I STO. 



To my Friend on the Death of His Sister. 331 

I lean my heart unto thee, sadly folding 

Thy hand in mine ; 
With even the weakness of my soul upholding 

The strength of thine. 

I never knew, like thee, the dear departed ; 

I stood not by 
When, in calm trust, the pure and tranquil-hearted 

Lay down to die. 

And on thy ears my words of weak condoHng 

Must vainly fall : 
The funeral bell which in thy heart is tolling, 

Sounds over all ! 

I will not mock thee with the poor world's common 

And heartless phrase, 
Nor wrong the memory of a sainted woman 

With idle praise. 

With silence only as their benediction, 

God's angels come 
Where, in the shadow of a great affliction, 

The soul sits dumb ! 

Yet, would I say what thy own heart approveth : 

Our Father's will. 
Calling to Him the dear one whom He loveth. 

Is mercy still. 

Not upon thee or thine the solemn angel 

Hath evil wrought : 
Her funeral anthem is a glad evangel, — 

The good die not ! 

God calls our loved ones, but we lose not wholly 

What He hath given ; 
They live on earth, in thought and deed, as truly 

As in his heaven. 

And she is with thee ; in thy path of trial 

She walketh yet ; 
Still with the baptism of thy self-denial 

Her locks are wet. 



332 Miscellaneous. 



Up, then, my brother ! Lo, the fields of harvest 

Lie white in view ! 
She lives and loves thee, and the God thou servest 

To both is true. 

Thrust ill thy sickle ! — England's toil-worn peasants 

Thy call abide ; 
And she thou mourn 'st, a pure and holy presence, 

Shall glean beside ! 



GONE. 

Another hand is beckoning us, 

Another call is given ; 
And glows'once more with Angel-steps 

The path which reaches Heaven. 

Our young and gentle friend, whose smile 

Made brighter summer hours. 
Amid the frosts of autumn time 

Has left us with the fiowers. 

No paling of the cheek of bloom 

Forewarned us of decay; 
No shadow from the Silent Land 

Fell round our sister's way. 

The light of her young life went down, 

As sinks behind the hill 
The glory of a setting star, — 

Clear, suddenly, and still. 

As pure and sweet, her fair brow seemed 

Eternal as the sky ; 
And like the brook's low song, her voice, — 

A sound which could not die. 

And half we deemed she needed not 

The changing of her sphere. 
To give to Heaven a Shining One, 

Who walked an Angel here. 

The blessing of her quiet life 

Fell on us like the dew; 
And good thoughts, where her footsteps pressed 

Like fairy blossoms grew. 



The Lake Side. Z2>2> 



Sweet promptings unto kindest deeds 

Were in her very look ; 
We read her face, as one who reads 

A true and holy book : 

The measure of a blessed hymn, 
To which our hearts could move; 

The breathing of an inward psalm ; 
A canticle of love. 

We miss her in the place of prayer, 
And by the hearth-tire's light ; 

We pause beside her doer to hear 
Once more her sweet " Good-night !" 

There seems a shadow on the day, 

Her smile no longer cheers ; 
A dimness on the stars of night. 

Like eyes that look through tears. 

Alone unto our Father's will 
One thought hath reconciled ; 

That He whose love exceedeth ours 
Hath taken home His child. 

Fold her, O Father ! in thine arms, 

And let her henceforth be 
A messenger of love between 

Our human hearts and thee. 

Still let her mild rebuking stand 

Between us and the wrong. 
And her dear memory serve to make 

Our faith in Goodness strong. 

And grant that she who, trembling, here 

Distrusted all her powers, 
May welcome to her holier home 

The well-beloved of ours. 

THE LAKE-SIDE. 

The shadows round the inland sea 

Are deepening into night ; 
Slow up the slopes of Ossipee 

They chase the lessening light. 



334 



Miscellaneous. 



Tired of the long day's blinding- heat, 

I rest my languid eye, 
Lake of the Hills ! where, cool and sweet, 

Thy sunset waters lie ! 



Along the sky, in wavy lines. 
O'er isle and reach and bay. 

Green-belted with eternal pines, 
The mountains stretch away. 




The shadows round the inland sea are deepening into night. 



Below, the maple masses sleep 
Where shore with water blends, 

While midway on the tranquil deep 
The evening light descends. 



So seemed it when yon hill's red crown, 

Of old, the Indian trod, 
And, through the sunset air, looked down 

Upon the Smile of God/^ 
To him of light and shade the laws 

No forest sceptic taught ; 
Their living and eternal Cause 

His truer instinct sought. 



The Hill- Top. 335 



He saw these mountains in the Hght 

Which now across them shines ; 
This lake, in summer sunset bright, 

Walled round with sombering pines. 
God near him seemed ; from earth and skies 

His loving voice he heard, 
As. face to face, in Paradise, 

Man stood before the Lord. 

Thanks, O our Father ! that, like him, 

Thy tender love I see. 
In radiant hill and woodland dim, 

And tinted sunset sea. 
For not in mockery dost thou fill 

Our earth with light and grace ; 
Thou hid'st no dark and cruel will 

Behind Thy smiling face ! 



THE HILL-TOP. 

The burly driver at my side. 

We slowly climbed the hill. 
Whose summit, in the hot noontide, 

Seemed rising, rising still. 
At last, our short noon-shadows hid 

The top-stone, bare and brown. 
From whence, like Gizeh's pyramid, 

The rough mass slanted down. 

I felt the cool breath of the North ; 

Between me and the sun. 
O'er deep, still lake, and ridgy earth, 

I saw the cloud-shades run. 
Before me, stretched for glistening miles, 

Lay mountain-girdled Squam ; 
Like green-winged birds, the leafy isles 

Upon its bosom swam. 

And, glimmering through the sun-haze warm, 

Far as the eye could roam. 
Dark billows of an earthquake storm 

Beflecked with clouds like foam, 
Their vales in misty shadow deep, 

Their rugged peaks in shine, 
I saw the mountain ranges sweep 

The horizon's northern line. 



336 Miscellaneous. 



There towered Chocorua's peak ; and west, 

Moosehillock's woods were seen, 
With many a nameless slide-scarred crest 

And pine-dark gorge between. 
Beyond them, like a sun-rimmed cloud, 

The great Notch mountains shone, 
Watched over by the solemn-browed 

And awful face of stone ! 




On yonder mossy ledge she sat, her sketch upon her knees. 

" A good look-off !" the driver spake : 

" About this time, last year, 
I drove a party to the Lake, 

And stopped, at evening, here. 
'T was duskish down below ; but all 

These hills stood in the sun, 
Till, dipped behind yon purple wall. 

He left them, one by one. 

" A lady, who, from Thornton hill, 

Had held her place outside. 
And, as a pleasant woman will. 

Had cheered the long, dull ride. 
Besought me, with so sweet a smile, 

That — though I hate delays — 



Oil Receiving an Eagle's Qidll from Lake Superior. 337 

I could not choose but rest awhile, — 
(These women have such ways !) 

" On yonder mossy ledge she sat, 

Her sketch upon her knees, 
A stray brown lock beneath her hat 

Unrolling in the breeze ; 
Her sweet face, in the sunset light 

Upraised and glorified, — 
I never saw a prettier sight 

In all my mountain ride. 

" As good as fair ; it seemed her joy 

To comfort and to give ; 
My poor, sick wife, and cripple boy. 

Will bless her while they live !" 
The tremor in the driver's tone 

His manhood did not shame : 
" I dare say, sir, you may have known — " 

He named a well-known name. 

Then sank the pyramidal mounds. 

The blue lake tied away ; 
For mountain-scope a parlor's bounds, 

A lighted hearth for day ! 
From lonely years and weary miles 

The shadows fell apart; 
Kind voices cheered, sweet human smiles 

Shone warm into my heart. 

We journeyed on ; but earth and sky 

Had power to charm no more ; 
Still dreamed my inward-turning eye 

The dream of memory o'er. 
Ah ! human kindness, human love, — 

To few who seek denied, — 
Too late we learn to prize above 

The whole round world beside ! 



ON RECEIVING AN EAGLE'S QUILL FROM LAKE 
SUPERIOR. 

All day the darkness and the cold 

Upon mv heart have lain, 
Like shadows on the winter sky, 

Like frost upon the pane ; 



338 Miscellaneous. 



But now my torpid fancy wakes, 

And, on thy Eagle's plume, 
Rides forth, Hke Sindbad on his bird, 

Or witch upon her broom ! 

Below me roar the rocking pines. 

Before me spreads the lake 
Whose long and solemn-sounding waves 

Against the sunset break, 

I hear the wild Rice-Eater thresh 

The grain he has not sown ; 
I see, with flashing scythe of hre, 

The prairie harvest mown ! 

I hear the far-off voyager's horn ; 

I see the Yankee's trail, — 
His foot on every mountain-pass, 

On every stream his sail. 

By forest, lake, and waterfall, 

I see his pedler show ; 
The mighty mingling with the mean. 

The lofty with the low. 

He 's whittling by St. Mary's Falls, 

Upon his loaded wain ; 
He 's measuring o'er the Pictured Rocks, 

With eager eyes of gain. 

I hear the mattock in the mine. 

The axe-stroke in the dell. 
The clamor from the Indian lodge. 

The Jesuit chapel bell ! 

I see the swarthy trappers come 

From Mississipi)i's springs ; 
And war-chiefs with their painted brows, 

And crests of eagle wings. 

Behind the scared squaw's birch canoe. 
The steamer smokes and raves ; 

And city lots are staked for sale 
Above old Indian graves. 



On Receiving an Eagle s Quill from Lake Superior. 339 



I hear the tread of pioneers 

Of nations yet to be ; 
The first low wash of waves, where soon 

Shall roll a human sea. 

The rudiments of empire here 

Are plastic yet and warm ; 
The chaos of a mighty world 

Is rounding into form ! 

Each rude and jostling fragment soon 

Its fitting place shall find, — 
The raw material of a State, 

Its muscle and its mind ! 

And, westering still, the star which leads 

The New World in its train 
Has tipped with fire the icy spears 

Of many a mountain chain. 

The snowy cones of Oregon 

Are kindling on its way ; 
And California's golden sands 

Gleam brighter in its ray ! 

Then blessings on thy eagle quill, 

As, wandering far and wide, 
I thank thee for this twilight dream 

And Fancy's airy ride ! 

Yet, welcomer than regal plumes. 

Which Western trappers find. 
Thy free and pleasant thoughts, chance sown. 

Like feathers on the wind. 



Thy symbol be the mountain-bird, 
Whose glistening quill I hold ; 

Thy home the ample air of hope, 
And memory's sunset gold ! 

In thee, let joy with duty join, 
And strength unite with love. 

The eagle's pinions folding round 
The warm heart of the dove ! 




f//. 



iL 



A Bi AUTIFUL AND HAPPY GIRL, WITH STEP AS LIGHT AS SUMMER AIR. 



Memories. 341 



So, when in darkness sleeps the vale 
Where still the blind bird clings, 

The sunshine of the upper sky- 
Shall glitter on thy wings ! 



MEMORIES. 

A BEAUTIFUL and happy girl, 

With step as light as summer air, 
Eyes glad with smiles, and brow of pearl, 
Shadowed by many a careless curl 

Of unconfined and flowing hair; 
A seeming child in everything. 

Save thoughtful brow and ripening charms, 
As Nature wears the smile of Spring 

When sinking into Summer's arms. 

A mind rejoicing in the light 

Which melted through its graceful bower, 
Leaf after leaf, dew-moist and bright. 
And stainless in its holy white, 

Unfolding like a morning flower: 
A heart, which, like a fine-toned lute. 

With every breath of feeling woke. 
And, even when the tongue was mute, 

From eye and lip in music spoke. 

How thrills once more the lengthening chain 

Of memory, at the thought of thee ! 
Old hopes which long in dust have lain 
Old dreams, come thronging back again, 

And boyhood lives again in me ; 
I feel its glow upon my cheek. 

Its fulness of the heart is mine. 
As when I leaned to hear thee speak, 

Or raised my doubtful eye to thine. 

I hear again thy low replies, 

I feel thy arm within my own. 
And timidly again uprise 
The fringed lids of hazel eyes, 

With soft brown tresses overblown. 
Ah ! memories of sweet summer eves. 

Of moonlit wave and willowy way. 
Of stars and flowers, and dewy leaves. 

And smiles and tones more dear than they ! 



342 



Miscellaneous. 



Ere this, thy quiet eye hath smiled 

My picture of thy youth to see, 
When, half a woman, half a child. 
Thy very artlessness beguiled, 

And folly's self seemed wise in thee ; 
I too can smile, when o'er that hour 

The lights of memory backward stream, 
Yet feel the while that manhood's power 

Is vainer than my boyhood's dream. 







^r.^ :^. 



Ah ! MEMORIES OF SWEET SUMMER EVES. 

Years have passed on, and left their trace, 

Of graver care and deeper thought ; 
And unto me the calm, cold face 
Of manhood, and to thee the grace 

Of woman's pensive beauty brought. 
More wide, perchance, for blame than praise. 

The school-boy's humble name has flown ; 
Thine, in the green and quiet ways 

Of unobtrusive goodness known. 



And wider yet in thought and deed 

Diverge our {pathways, one in youth 
Thine the Genevan's sternest creed, 



The Legend of St. Mark. 343 

While answers to my spirit's need 

The Derby dalesman's simple truth. 
For thee, the priestly rite and prayer, 

And holy day, and solemn psalm ; 
For me, the silent reverence where 

My brethren gather, slow and calm. 

Yet hath thy spirit left on me 

An impress Time has worn not out, 
And something of myself in thee, 
A shadow from the past, I see, 

Lingering even yet, thy way about ; 
Not wholly can the heart unlearn 

That lesson of its better hours, 
Not yet has Time's dull footstep worn 

To common dust that path of flowers. 

Thus, while at times before our eyes 

The shadows melt, and fall apart. 
And, smiling through them, round us lies 
The warm light of our morning skies, — 

The Indian Summer of the heart ! — 
In secret sympathies of mind. 

In founts of feeling which retain 
Their pure, fresh flow, we yet may find 

Our early dreams not wholly vain ! 

THE LEGEND OF ST. MARK.''^ 

The day is closing dark and cold. 

With roaring blast and sleety showers ; 

And through the dusk the lilacs wear 
The bloom of snow, instead of flowers. 

I turn me from the gloom without, 

To ponder o'er a tale of old, 
A legend of the age of Faith, 

By dreaming monk or abbess told. 

On Tintoretto's canvas lives 

That fancy of a loving heart. 
In graceful lines and shapes of power, 

And hues immortal as his art. 

In Provence (so the story runs) 

There lived a lord, to whom, as slave, 

A peasant-boy of tender years 

The chance of trade or conquest gave. 



344 Miscellaneous. 

Forth-looking from the castle tower, 
Beyond the hills with almonds dark, 

The straining eye could scarce discern 
The chapel of the good St. Mark. 

And there, when bitter word or fare 
The service of the youth repaid. 

By stealth, before that holy shrine, 

For grace to bear his wrong, he prayed. 

The steed stamped at the castle gate, 
The boar-hunt sounded on the hill ; 

Why stayed the Baron from the chase. 
With looks so stern, and words so ill } 

" Go, bind yon slave ! and let him learn. 
By scath of fire and strain of cord, 

How ill they speed who give dead saints 
The homage due their living lord !" 

They bound him on the fearful rack. 

When, through the dungeon's vaulted dark, 

He saw the light of shining robes, 
And knew the face of good St. Mark. 

Then sank the iron rack apart. 

The cords released their cruel clasp, 

The pincers, with their teeth of fire. 
Fell broken from the torturer's grasp. 

And lo ! before the Youth and Saint, 

Barred door and wall of stone gave way ; 

And up from bondage and the night 
They passed to freedom and the day ! 

O dreaming monk ! thy tale is true ; — 
O painter ! true thy pencil's art ; 

In tones of hope and prophecy, 
Ye whisper to my listening heart ! 

Unheard no burdened heart's appeal 
Moans up to God's inclining ear ; 

Unheeded by his tender eye. 

Falls to the earth no sufferer's tear. 



The Well of Loeh Maree. 345 

For still the Lord alone is God ! 

The pomp and power of tyrant man 
Are scattered at his lightest breath, 

Like chaff before the winnower's fan. 

Not always shall the slave uplift 

His heavy hands to Heaven in vain, 
God"s angel, like the good St. Mark, 

Comes shining down to break his chain ! 

O weary ones ! ye may not see 

Your helpers in their downward flight; 

Nor hear the sound of silver wdngs 

Slow beating through the hush of night ! 

But not the less gray Dothan shone. 
With sunbright watchers bending low, 

That Fear's dim eye beheld alone 
The spear-heads of the Syrian foe. 

There are, who, like the Seer of old, 

Can see the helpers God has sent. 
And how life's rugged mountain-side 

Is white with many an angel tent ! 

They hear the heralds whom our Lord 

Sends down his pathway to prepare ; 
And light, from others hidden, shines 

On their high place of faith and prayer. 

Let such, for earth's despairing ones. 

Hopeless, yet longing to be free. 
Breathe once again the Prophet's prayer: 

" Lord, ope their eyes, that they may see !" 



THE WELL OF LOCH MAREE."'' 

Calm on the breast of Loch Maree 

A little isle reposes ; 
A shadow woven of the oak 

And willow o'er it closes. 

Within, a Druid's mound is seen. 
Set round with stony warders ; 

A fountain, gushing through the turf, 
Flow^s o'er its grassy borders. 



346 Miscellaneous. 



And whoso bathes therein his brow, 
With care or madness burning, 

Feels once again his healthful thought 
And sense of peace returning. 

O restless heart and fevered brain, 

Unquiet and unstable. 
That holy well of Loch Maree 

Is more than idle fable ! 

Life's changes vex, its discords stun, 
Its glaring sunshine blindeth, 

And blest is he who on his way 
That fount of healing hndeth ! 

The shadows of a humbled will 
And contrite heart are o'er it ; 

Go read its legend — " Trust in God' 
On Faith's white stones before it. 



TO MY SLSTER; 

WriH A COPY OF " SUPERNATURALISM OF NEW ENGLAND. 

Dear Sister ! — while the wise and sage 
Turn coldly from my ])layful page, 
And count it strange that ripened age 

Should stoop to boyhood's folly ; 
I know that thou w-ilt judge aright 
Of all which makes the heart more light, 
Or lends one star-gleam to the night 

Of clouded Melancholy. 

Away with weary cares and themes ! — 
Swing wide the moonlit gate of dreams ! 
Leave free once more the land which teems 

With wonders and romances ! 
Where thou, with clear discerning eyes, 
Shalt rightly read the truth which lies 
Beneath the quaintly masking guise 

Of wild and wizard fancies. 

Lo ! once again our feet we set 
On still green wood-paths, twilight wet, 
By lonely brooks, whose waters fret 
The roots of spectral beeches ; 



Autumn Thoughts. 347 



Again the heart-fire gHnimers o'er 
Home's whitewashed wall and painted floor, 
And young eyes widening to the lore 
Of faery-folks and witches. 

Dear heart ! — the legend is not vain 
Which lights that holy hearth again, 
And calling back from care and pain, 

And death's funereal sadness, 
Draws round its old familiar blaze 
The clustering groups of happier days, 
And lends to sober manhood's gaze 

A ghmpse of childish gladness. 

And, knowing how my life had been 

A weary w^ork of tongue and pen, 

A long, harsh strife with strong-willed men. 

Thou wilt not chide my turning 
To con, at times, an idle rhyme, 
To pluck a flower from childhood's clime. 
Or listen, at Life's noonday chime. 

For the sweet bells of INIorning ! 



AUTUMN THOUGHTS. 

FROM " MARGARET SMITH S JOURNAL." 

Gone hath the Spring, with all its flowers, 
And gone the Summer's pomp and show, 

And Autumn, in his leafless bowers, 
Is w^aiting for the Winter's snow. 

I said to Earth, so cold and gray, 
" An emblem of myself thou art ;" 

" Not so," the Earth did seem to say, 

" For Spring shall warm my frozen heart." 

I soothe my wintry sleep with dreams 

Of warmer sun and softer rain, 
And wait to hear the sound of streams 

And songs of merry birds again. 

But thou, from whom the Spring hath gone, 
For whom the flowers no longer blow, 

Who standest blighted and forlorn, 
Like Autumn waiting for the snow : 



348 



Miscellaneous. 



No hope is thine of sunnier hours, 
Thy Winter shall no more depart ; 

No Spring revive thy wasted flowers, 
Nor Summer warm thy frozen heart. 




Like Autumn waiting for the snow. 



CALEF IN BOSTON. 
1692. 

In the solemn days of old, 

Two men met in Boston town, 

One a tradesman frank and bold, 
One a preacher of renown. 



Calef in Boston. 



349 




In the ancient 



BURYING-GROUND. 



Cried the last, in bitter 
tone, — 
" Poisoner of the wells 
of truth ! 
Satan's hireling, thou hast 
sown 
With his tares the heart 
of youth !" 

Spake the simple trades- 
man then, — 
" God be judge 'twixt 
thou and me ; 
All thou knoweth of truth 
hath been 
Once a lie to men like 
thee. 

" Falsehoods which we 
spurn to-day 
Were the truths of long 
ago; 
Let the dead boughs fall 
away. 
Fresher shall the living 
grow. 



" God is good and God is light, 
\\\ this faith I rest secure ; 

Evil can but serve the right. 
Over all shall love endure. 



" Of your spectral puppet play 
I have traced the cunning wires; 

Come what will, I needs must say, 
God is true, and ye are liars." 

When the thought of man is free, 
"Error fears its lightest tones ; 

So the priest cried, " Sadducee !" 
And the people took up stones. 

In the ancient burying-ground, 
Side by side the twain now lie, — 

One with humble grassy mound, 
One with marbles pale and high. 



3 5 o Miscclla ncou s . 



But the Lord hath blest the seed 

Which that tradesman scattered then, 

And the j^reacher's spectral creed 
Chills no more the blood of men. 

Let us trust, to one is known 

Perfect love which casts out fear, 

While the other's joys atone 
For the wrong he suffered here. 



TO PIUS IX.^" 

The cannon's brazen lips are cold ; 

No red shell blazes down the air ; 
And street and tower, and temple old, 

Are silent as despair. 

The Lombard stands no more at bay, — 
Rome's fresh young life has bled in vain ; 

The ravens scattered by the day 
Come back with night again. 

Now, while the fratricides of France 
Are treading on the neck of Rome, 

Hider at Gaeta, — seize thy chance ! 
Coward and cruel, come ! 

Creep now from Naples' bloody skirt ; 

Thy mummer's part was acted well, 
While Rome, with steel and fire begirt, 

Before thy crusade fell ! 

Her death-groans answered to thy prayer ; 

Thy chant, the drum and bugle-call ; 
Thy lights, the burning villa's glare ; 

Thy beads, the shell and ball ! 

Let Austria clear thy way, with hands 
Foul from Ancona's cruel sack. 

And Naples, with his dastard bands 
Of murderers, lead thee back ! 

Rome's lips are dumb ; the orphan's wail. 
The mother's shriek, thou mayst not hear 

Above the faithless Frenchman's hail, 
The unsexed shaveling's cheer ! 



To Pius IX. 351 



Go, bind on Rome her cast-off weight, 
The double curse of crook and crown, 

Though woman's scorn and manhood's hate 
From wall and roof flash down ! 

Nor heed those blood-stains on the wall. 
Not Tiber's flood can wash away, 

Where, in thy stately Ouirinal, 
Thy mangled victims lay ! 

Let the world murmur ; let its cry 
Of horror and disgust be heard ; — 

Truth stands alone ; thy coward lie 
Is backed by lance and sword ! 

The cannon of St. Angelo, 

And chanting priest and clanging bell, 
And beat of drum and bugle blow. 

Shall greet thy coming well I 

Let lips of iron and tongues of slaves 
Fit welcome give thee ; — for her part, 

Rome, frowning o'er her new-made graves, 
Shall curse thee from her heart ! 



No wreaths of sad Campagna's flowers 
Shall childhood in thy pathway fling ; 

No garlands from their ravaged bowers 
Shall Terni's maidens bring ; 

But, hateful as that tyrant old. 

The mocking witness of his crime. 

In thee shall loathing eyes behold 
The Nero of our time ! 



Stand where Rome's blood was freest shed, 
Mock Heaven with impious thanks, and call 

Its curses on the patriot dead, 
Its blessings on the Gaul ! 

Or sit upon thy throne of lies, 

A poor, mean idol, blood-besmeared, 

Whom even its worshij)pers despise, — 
Unhonored, unrevered ! 



352 Miscellaneous. 



Yet, Scandal of the World ! from thee 
One needful truth mankind shall learn,— 

That kings and priests to Liberty 
And God are false in turn. 

Earth wearies of them ; and the long 

Meek sufferance of the Heavens doth fail ; 

Woe for weak tyrants, when the strong 
Wake, struggle, and prevail I 

Not vainly Roman hearts have bled 
To feed the Crozier and the Crown, 

If, roused thereby, the world shall tread 
The twin-born vampires down ! 

ELLIOTT.^' 

Hands off ! thou tithe-fat plunderer ! play 

No trick of priestcraft here ! 
Back, puny lordling ! darest thou lay 

A hand on Elliott's bier ? 
Alive, your rank and pomp, as dust. 

Beneath his feet he trod : 
He knew the locust swarm that cursed 

The harvest-fields of God. 

On these pale lips, the smothered thought 

Which England's millions feel, 
A fierce and fearful splendor caught. 

As from his forge the steel. 
Strong-armed as Thor, — a shower of fire 

His smitten anvil flung; 
God's curse. Earth's wrong, dumb Hunger's ire, 

He gave them all a tongue ! 

Then let the poor man's horny hands 

Bear up the mighty dead, 
And labor's swart and stalwart bands 

Behind as mourners tread. 
Leave cant and craft their baptized bounds. 

Leave rank its minster floor; 
Give England's green and daisied grounds 

The poet of the poor ! 

Lay down upon his Sheaf's green verge 

That brave old heart of oak. 
With fitting dirge from sounding forge, 

And pall of furnace smoke ! 



Ic/iaDod. 353 



Where whirls the stone its dizzy rounds, 
And axe and sledge are swung, 

And, timing to their stormy sounds, 
His stormy lays are sung. 

There let the peasant's step be heard, 

The grinder chant his rhyme ; 
Nor patron's praise nor dainty word 

Befits the man or time. 
No soft lament nor dreamer's sigh 

For him whose words were bread, — 
The Runic rhyme and spell whereby 

The foodless poor were fed ! 

Pile up thy tombs of rank and pride, 

O England, as thou wilt ! 
With pomp to nameless worth denied, 

Emblazon titled guilt ! 
No part or lot in these we claim ; 

But, o'er the sounding wave, 
A common right to Elliott's name, 

A freehold in his grav^e ! 

ICHABOD! 

So fallen ! so lost ! the light withdraw^n 

Which once he w'ore ! 
The glory from his gray hairs gone 

Forevermore ! 

Revile him not, — the Tempter hath 

A snare for all ; 
And pitving tears, not scorn and wrath, 

Befit his fall ! 

O, dumb be passion's stormy rage. 

When he who might 
Have lighted up and led his age. 

Falls back in night. 

Scorn ! would the angels laugh, to mark 

A bright soul driven. 
Fiend-goaded, down the endless dark. 

From hope and heaven ! 

Let not the land once proud of him 

Insult him now, 
Nor brand with deeper shame his dim, 

Dishonored brow. 



354 Miscella iieous. 



But let its humbled sons, instead, 

From sea to lake, 
A long lament, as for the dead, 

In sadness make. 

Of all we loved and honored, naught 
Save power remains, — 

A fallen angel's pride of thought. 
Still strong in chains. 

All else is gone ; from those great e\es 

The soul has tied : 
When faith is lost, when honor dies. 

The man is dead ! 

Then, pay the reverence of old days 

To his dead fame ; 
Walk backward, with averted gaze, 

And hide the shame ! 



THE CHRISTIAN TOURISTS."^ 

No aimless wanderers, by the fiend Unrest 

Goaded from shore to shore ; 
No schoolmen, turning, in their classic quest, 

The leaves of empire o'er. 
Simple of faith, and bearing in their hearts 

The love of man and God, 
Isles of old song, the Moslem's ancient marts, 

And Scythia's steppes, they trod. 

Where the long shadows of the fir and pine 

In the night sun are cast, 
And the deep heart of many a Norland mine 

Quakes at each riving blast ; 
Where, in barbaric grandeur, Moskwa stands, 

A baptized Scythian queen, 
With Europe's arts and Asia's jewelled hands, 

The North and East between ! . 

Where still, through vales of Grecian fable, stray 

The classic forms of yore, 
And beauty smiles, new risen from the spray. 

And Dian weeps once more ; 
Where every tongue in Smyrna's mart resounds ; 

And Stamboul from the sea 
Lifts her tall minarets over burial-grounds 

Black with the cypress-tree ! 



The CJiristiaii Tourists. 355 

P>om Malta's temples to the gates of Rome, 

Following- the track of Paul, 
And where the Alps gird round the Switzer's home 

Their vast, eternal wall ; 
They paused not by the ruins of old time, 

They scanned no pictures rare, 
Nor lingered where the snow-locked mountains climb 

The cold abyss of air ! 

But unto prisons, where men lay in chains. 

To haunts where Hunger pined, 
To kings and courts forgetful of the pains 

And wants of human-kind, 
Scattering sweet words, and quiet deeds of good, 

Along their w^ay, like flowers. 
Or pleading, as Christ's freemen only could, 

With princes and with powers ; 

Their single aim the purpose to fultil 

Of Truth, from day to day. 
Simply obedient to its guiding will. 

They held their pilgrim way. 
Yet dream not, hence, the beautiful and old 

Were w^asted on their sight, 
Who in the school of Christ had learned to hold 

All outward things aright. 

Not less to them the breath of vineyards blown 

From off the Cyprian shore. 
Not less for them the Alps in sunset shone, 

That man they valued more. 
A life of beauty lends to all it sees 

The beauty of its thought ; 
And fairest forms and sweetest harmonies 

Make glad its way, unsought. 

In sweet accordancy of praise and love. 

The singing waters run ; 
And sunset mountains wear in light above 

The smile of duty done ; 
Sure stands the promise, — ever to the meek 

A heritage is given ; 
Nor lose thy Earth who, single-hearted, seek 

The righteousness of Heaven ! 




Well speed thy mission, bold Iconoclast ! 
Yet all unworthy of its trust thou art, 
If, with dry eye, and cold, unloving heart, 

Thou tread'st the solemn Pantheon of the Past, 
By the great Future's dazzling hope made blind 
To all the beauty, power, and truth behind. 

Not without reverent awe shouldst thou put by 
The cypress branches and the amaranth blooms. 
Where, with clasped hands of prayer, upon their tombs 

The effigies of old confessors lie, = 

God's witnesses ; the voices of His v^'ill, 

Heard in the slow march of the centuries still ! 

Such were the men at whose rebuking frown. 

Dark with God's wrath, the tyrant's knee went down ; 

Such from the terrors of the guilty drew 

The vassal's freedom and the poor man's due. 

St. Anselm (may he rest forevermore 

In Heaven's sweet peace !) forbade, of old, the sale 

Of men as slaves, and from the sacred pale 
Hurled the Northumbrian buyers of the poor. 
To ransom souls from bonds and evil fate 
St. Ambrose melted down the sacred plate,— 
Image of saint, the chalice, and the pix. 
Crosses of gold, and silver candlesticks. 
" Man is worth more than temples !" he replied 
To such as came his holy work to chide. 
And brave Cesarius, stripping altars bare. 

And coining from the Abbey's golden hoard 
The captive's freedom, answered to the prayer 

Or threat of those whose fierce zeal for the Lord 
Stifled their love of man, — " An earthen dish 

The last sad supper of the Master bore : 
Most miserable sinners ! do ye wish 

More than your Lord, and grudge His dying poor 



The Peace Convention at Brussels. 



357 



What your own pride and not His need requires ? 

Souls, than these shining gauds, He values more ; 
Mercy, not sacrifice, His heart desires !" 
O faithful worthies ! resting far behind 
In your dark ages, since ye fell asleep. 
Much has been done for truth and human-kind, — 
Shadows are scattered wherein ye groped blind ; 
Man claims his birthright, freer pulses leap 
Through peoples driven in your day like sheep ; 
Yet, like your own, our age's sphere of light. 
Though widening still, is walled around by night ; 
With slow, reluctant eye, the Church has read, 
Sceptic at heart, the lessons of its Head ; 
Counting, too oft, its living members less 
Than the wall's garnish and the pulpit's dress ; 
World-moving zeal, with power to bless and feed 
Life's fainting pilgrims, to their utter need, 
Instead of bread, holds out the stone of creed ; 
Sect builds and worships where its wealth and pride 
And vanity stand shrined and deified, 
Careless that in the shadow of its walls 
God's living temple into ruin falls. 
We need, methinks, the prophet-hero still. 
Saints true of life, and martyrs strong of will. 
To tread the land, even now, as Xavier trod 

The streets of Goa, barefoot, with his bell. 
Proclaiming freedom in the name of God, 

And startling tyrants with the fear of hell ! 

Soft words, smooth prophecies, are doubtless well ; 
But to rebuke the age's popular crime. 
We need the souls of fire, the hearts of that old time ! 



THE PEACE CONVENTION AT BRUSSELS. 

Still in thy streets, O Paris ! doth the stain 
Of blood defy the cleansing autumn rain ; 
Still breaks the smoke Messina's ruins through, 
And Naples mourns that new Bartholomew, 
When squalid beggary, for a dole of bread. 
At a crowned murderer's beck of license, fed 
The yawning trenches with her noble dead ; 
Still, doomed Vienna, through thy stately halls 
The shell goes crashing and the red shot falls, 
And, leagued to crush thee, on the Danube's side, 
The bearded Croat and Bosniak spearman ride ; 
Still in that vale where Himalaya's snow 



358 Miscellaneous. 



Melts round the cornfields and the vines below, 

The Sikh's hot cannon, answering ball for ball, 

Flames in the breach of Moultan's shattered wall ; 

On Chenab's side the vulture seeks the slain, 

And Sutlej paints with blood its banks again. 

" What folly, then," the faithless critic cries, 

With sneering lip, and wise world-knowing eyes, 

" While fort to fort, and post to post, repeat 

The ceaseless challenge of the war-drum's beat, 

And round the green earth, to the church-bell's chime. 

The morning drum-roll of the camp keeps time, 

To dream of peace amidst a world in arms. 

Of swords to ploughshares changed by Scriptural charms. 

Of nations, drunken with the wine of blood, 

Staggering to take the Pledge of Brotherhood, 

Like tipplers answering Father Mathew's call, — 

The sullen Spaniard, and the mad-cap Gaul, 

The bull-dog Briton, yielding but with life, 

The Yankee swaggering with his bowie-knife, 

The Russ, from banquets with the vulture shared, 

The blood still dripping from his amber beard, 

Quitting their mad Berserker dance to hear 

The dull, meek droning of a drab-coat seer; 

Leaving the sport of Presidents and Kings, 

Where men for dice each titled gambler flings. 

To meet alternate on the Seine and Thames, 

For tea and gossip, like old country dames ! 

No ! let the cravens plead the weakling's cant, 

Let Cobden cipher, and let Vincent rant, 

Let Sturge preach peace to democratic throngs, 

And Burritt, stammering through his hundred tongues. 

Repeat, in all, his ghostly lessons o'er. 

Timed to the pauses of the battery's roar ; 

Check Ban or Kaiser with the barricade 

Of " Olive-leaves" and Resolutions made. 

Spike guns with pointed Scripture-texts, and hope 

To capsize navies with a windy trope ; 

Still shall the glory and the pomp of War 

Along their train the shouting millions draw ; 

Still dusty Labor to the passing Brave 

His cap shall doff, and Beauty's kerchief wave ; 

Still shall the bard to Valor tune his song. 

Still Hero-worship kneel before the Strong; 

Rosy and sleek, the sable-gowned divine, 

O'er his third bottle of suggestive wine, 

To plumed and sworded auditors, shall prove 

Their trade accordant with the Law of Love ; 



The Wish of To-day. 359 



And Church for State, and State for Church, shall fight, 

And both agree, that Might alone is Right !" 

Despite of sneers like these, O faithful few, 

Who dare to hold God's word and witness true. 

Whose clear-eyed faith transcends our evil time, 

And o'er the present wilderness of crime 

Sees the calm future, with its robes of green. 

Its fleece-flecked mountains, and soft streams between, — 

Still keep the path which duty bids ye tread. 

Though w^orldly wisdom shake the cautious head ; 

No truth from Heaven descends upon our sphere, 

Without the greeting of the sceptic's sneer; 

Denied and mocked at, till its blessings fall. 

Common as dew and sunshine, over all. 

Then, o'er Earth's war-field, till the strife shall cease, 
Like Morven's harpers, sing your song of peace ; 
As in old fable rang the Thracian's lyre. 
Midst howl of fiends and roar of penal fire, 
Till the fierce din to pleasing murmurs fell. 
And love subdued the maddened heart of hell. 
Lend, once again, that holy song a tongue. 
Which the glad angels of the Advent sung. 
Their cradle-anthem for the Saviour's bii./i. 
Glory to God, and peace unto the earth ! 
Through the mad discord send that calming word 
Whicli wind and wave on wild Genesareth heard, 
Lift in Christ's name His Cross against the Sword ! 
Not vain the vision which the prophets saw. 
Skirting with green the fiery w^aste of war. 
Through the hot sand-gleam, looming soft and calm 
On the sky's rim, the fountain-shading palm. 
Still lives for Earth, which fiends so long have trod, 
The great hope resting on the truth of God, — 
Evil shall cease and Violence pass away. 
And the tired world breathe free through a long Sabbath day, 

nth ;//£?., 1848. 

• THE WISH OF TO-DAY. 

I ASK not now for gold to gild 

With mocking shine a weary frame ; 

The yearning of the mind is stilled, — 
I ask not now for Fame. 

A rose-cloud, dimly seen above, 

Melting in heaven's blue depths away, — 



360 Misccllaiictnts. 

O, sweet, fond dream of human Love ! 
For thee 1 may not pray. 

But, bowed in lowHness of mind, 

I make my humble wishes known, — 
I only ask a will resigned, 

Father, to thine own ! 

To-day, beneath thy chastening eye 

1 crave alone for peace and rest, 
Submissive in thy hand to lie, 

And feel that it is best. 

A marvel seems the Universe, 
A miracle our Life and Death ; 

A mystery which I cannot pierce, 
Around, above, beneath. 

In vain I task my aching brain. 
In vain the sage's thought I scan, 

I only feel how weak and vain. 
How poor and blind, is man. 

And now my spirit sighs for home. 
And longs for light whereby to see. 

And, like a weary child, would come, 
O Father, unto thee ! 

Though oft, like letters traced on sand. 
My weak resolves have passed away, 

In mercy lend thy helping hand 
Unto my prayer to-day ! 



OUR STATE. 

The South-land boasts its teeming cane. 
The prairied West its heavy grain, 
And sunset's radiant gates unfold 
On rising marts and sands of gold ! 

Rough, bleak, and hard, our little State 
Is scant of soil, of limits strait ; 
Her yellow sands are sands alone. 
Her only mines are ice and stone ! 



Secd-TiJne and Harvest. 



From Autumn frost to April rain, 
Too long her winter woods complain ; 
From budding flower to falling leaf, 
Her summer time is all too brief. 

Yet, on her rocks, and on her sands. 
And wintry hills, the school-house stands, 
And what her rugged soil denies. 
The harvest of the mind supplies. 

The riches of the Commonwealth 

Are free, strong minds, and hearts of health ; 

And more to her than gold or grain, 

The cunning hand and cultured brain. 

For well she keeps her ancient stock. 
The stubborn strength of Pilgrim Rock ; 
And still maintains, with milder laws, 
And clearer light, the Good Old Cause ! 

Nor heeds the sceptic's puny hands. 

While near her school the church-spire stands 

Nor fears the blinded bigot's rule, 

While near her church-spire stands the school. 



ALL'S WELL. 

The clouds, which rise with thunder, slake 

(3ur thirsty souls with rain ; 
The blow most dreaded falls to break 

From off our limbs a chain ; 
And wrongs of man to man but make 

The love of God more plain. 
As through the shadowy lens of even 
The eye looks farthest into heaven 
On gleams of star and depths of blue 
The glaring sunshine never knew ! 



SEED-TIME AND HARVEST. 

As o'er his furrowed fields which lie 
Beneath a coldly-dropping sky. 
Yet chill with winter's melted snow. 
The husbandman goes forth to sow. 



362 



Miscellaneous. 



Thus, Freedom, on the bitter blast 
The ventures of thy seed we cast, 
And trust to warmer sun and rain 
To swell the germ and fill the grain. 

Who calls thy glorious service hard ? 
Who deems it not its own reward ? 
Who, for its trials, counts it less 
A cause of praise and thankfulness ? 




The husbandman goes forth to sow. 



It may not be our lot to wield 
The sickle in the ripened field ; 
Nor ours to hear, on summer eves, 
The reaper's song among the sheaves. 

Yet where our duty's task is wrought 
In unison with God's great thought, 
The near and future blend in one. 
And whatsoe'er is willed, is done ! 



To A. K. 363 



And ours the grateful Si^rvice whence 
Comes, day by day, the recompense ; 
The hope, the trust, the purpose stayed. 
The fountain and the noonday shade. 

And were this hfe the utmost span. 
The only end and aim of man, 
Better the toil of fields like these 
Than waking dream and slothful ease. 

But life, though falling like our grain, 
Like that revives and springs again ; 
And, early called, how blest are they 
Who wait in heaven their harvest-day ! 

TO A. K. 

ON RECEIVING A BASKET OF SEA-MOSSES. 

Thanks for thy gift 
Of ocean flowers. 
Born where the golden drift 
Of the slant sunshine falls 
Down the green, tremulous walls 
Of water, to the cool still coral bowers. 
Where, under rainbows of perpetual showers, 
God's gardens of the deep 
His patient angels keep ; 
Gladdening the dim, strange solitude 
With fairest forms and hues, and thus 
Forever teaching us 
The lesson which the many-colored skies. 
The flowers, and leaves, and painted butterflies. 
The deer's branched antlers, the gay bird that flings 
The tropic sunshine from its golden wings. 
The brightness of the human countenance, 
Its play of smiles, the magic of a glance, 
For€vermore repeat. 
In varied tones and sweet. 
That beauty, in and of itself, is good. 

O kind and generous friend, o'er whom 
The sunset hues of Time are cast, 
Painting, upon the overpast 
And scattered clouds of noonday sorrow 
The promise of a fairer morrow. 



364 Miscellaneous. 



An earnest of the better life to come ; 
The binding of the spirit broken, 
The warning to the erring spoken, 

The comfort of the sad, 
The eye to see, the hand to cull 
Of common things the beautiful, 

The absent heart made glad 
By simple gift or graceful token 
Of love it needs as daily food. 
All own one Source, and all are good ! 
Hence, tracking sunny cove and reach, 
Where spent waves glimmer up the beach, 
And toss their gifts of weed and shell 
From foamy curve and combing swell. 
No unbefitting task was thine 

To weave these flowers so soft and fair 
In unison with His design 

Who loveth beauty everywhere ; 
And makes in every zone and clime, 

In ocean and in upper air, 
" All things beautiful in their time." 

For not alone in tones of awe and power 

He speaks to man ; 
The cloudy horror of the thunder-shower 
His rainbows span ; 
And where the caravan 
Winds o'er the desert, leaving, as in air 
The crane-flock leaves, no trace of passage there, 

He gives the weary eye 
The palm-leaf shadow for the hot noon hours, 
And on its branches dry 
Calls out the acacia's flowers ; 
And where the dark shaft pierces down 

Beneath the mountain roots. 
Seen by the miner's lamp alone, 
The star-like crystal shoots ; 
So, where, the winds and waves below. 
The coral-branche'd gardens grow. 
His climbing weeds and mosses show, 
Like foliage, on each stony bough, 
Of varied hues more strangely gay 
Than forest leaves in autumn's day ; — 
Thus evermore, 
On sky, and wave, and shore, 
An all-pervading beauty seems to say : 
God's love and power are one ; and they, 



The Unquiet Sleeper. 



Who, like the thunder of a sultry dav, 

Smite to restore, 
And they, who, like the gentle wind, uplift 
The petals of the dew-wet Mowers, and drift 

Their perfume on the air. 
Alike may serve Him, each, with their own gift, 

Making their lives a prayer ! 



THE UNQUIET SLEEPER. 

The Hunter went forth with his dog and gun, 
In the earliest glow of the golden sun ; — 
The trees of the forest bent over his way, 
In the changeful colors of Autumn gay ; 
For a frost had fallen the night before 
On the quiet greenness which Nature wore. 

A bitter frost ! — for the night was chill. 
And starry and dark, and the wind was still, 
And so when the sun looked out on the hills, 
On the stricken woods and the frosted rills, 
The Unvaried green of the landscape fled, 
And a wild, rich robe was given instead. 

We know not whither the Hunter went. 

Or how the last of his days was spent ; 

For the moon drew nigh — but he came not back, 

Weary and faint from his forest track ; 

And his wife sat down to her frugal board, 

Beside the empty seat of her lord. 

And the day passed on, and the sun came down 
To the hills of the west, like an angel's crown, 
The shadows lengthened from v/ood and hill, 
The mist crept up from the meadow-rill, 
Till the broad sun sank, and the red light rolled 
All over the west, like a wave of gold ! 

Yet he came not back — though the stars gave forth 

Their wizard light to the silent Earth ; 

And his wife looked out from the lattice dim 

In the earnest manner of fear for him ; 

And his fair-haired child on the door-stone stood 

To welcome his father back from the wood ! 



366 Misccllaiicoiis. 



He came not back ! — yet they found him soon, 
In the burning Hght of the morrow's noon, 
In the fixed and visionless sleep of death. 
Where the red leaves fell at the soft wind's breath ; 
And the dog, whose step in the chase was fleet, 
Crouched silent and sad at the Hunter's feet. 

He slept in death ; — but his sleep was one 

Which his neighbors shuddered to look upon; 

For his brow was black, and his open eye 

Was red with the sign of agony : 

And they thought, as they gazed on his features grim, 

That an evil deed had been done on him. 

They l)uried him where his fathers laid, 
By the mossy mounds in the grave-yard shade. 
Yet whispers of doubt passed over the dead, 
And beldames muttered while prayers were said ; 
And the hand of the sexton shook as he pressed • 
The damp earth down on the Hunter's breast. 

The seasons passed — and the Autumn rain 
And the colored forests returned again ; 
'T was the very eve that the Hunter died. 
The winds wail'd over the bare hill-side, 
And the wreathing limits of the forest shook 
Their red leaves over the swollen brook. 

There came a sound on the night-air then. 

Like a spirit-shriek, to the homes of men. 

And louder and shriller it rose again. 

Like the fearful cry of the mad with pain ; 

And trembled alike the timid and brave, 

For they knew that it came from the Hunter's grave ! 

And every year when Autumn flings 
Its beautiful robe on created things, 
When Piscataqua's tide is turbid with rain 
And Cocheco's woods are veHow again, 
That cry is heard from the grave-yard earth, 
Like the howl of a demon struggling forth ! 



METACOM. 

Red as the banner which enshrouds 
The warrior-dead when strife is done, 

A broken mass of crimson clouds 
Hung over the departed sun. 



Mctaconi. 367 



The shadow of the western hill 
Crept swiftly clown, and darkly still, 
As if a sullen wave of liight 
Were rushing on the pale twilight, 
The forest-openings grew more dim, 
As glimpses of the arching blue 
And waking stars came softly through 
The rifts of many a giant limb. 
Above the wet and tangled swamp 
White vapors gathered thick and damp, 
And through their cloudy-curtaining 
Flapped many a brown and dusky wing- 
Pinions that fan the moonless dun, 
But fold them at the risii>g sun ! 

Beneath the closing veil of night. 

And leafy bough and curling fog, 
With his few warriors ranged in sight — 
Scarred relics of his latest tight — 

Rested the fiery Wampanoag. 
He leaned upon his loaded gun, 
Warm with its recent work of death, 
And, save the struggling of his breath 
That, slow and hard, and long-suppressed, 
Shook the damp folds around his breast. 
An eye, that was unused to scan 
The sterner moods of that dark man, 
Had deem.ed his tall and silent form 
With hidden passion fierce and warm, 
With that fixed eye, as still and dark 
As clouds which veil their lightning spark - 
That of some forest-champion 
Whom sudden death had passed upon — 
A giant frozen into stone. 
Son of the throned Sachem, — thou. 

The sternest of the forest kings, — 
Shall the scorned pale one trample now, 
Unambushed, on thy mountain's brow — 
Yea, drive his vile and hated plow 

Among thy nation's holy things, 
Crushing the warrior-skeleton 
In scorn beneath his armed heel, 
And not a hand be left to deal 
A kindred vengeance fiercely back. 
And cross in blood the Spoiler's track } 

He started, — for a sudden shot 

Came booming through the forest-trees- 



^6S Miscellaneous. 



The thunder of the fierce Yengeese : 
It passed away, and injured not; 
But, to the Sachem's brow it brought 
The tolcen of his Hon thought. 
He stood erect — his dark eye burned, 
As if to meteor-brightness turned ; 
And o'er his forehead passed the frown 
Of an archangel stricken down. 
Ruined and lost, yet chainless still — 
Weakened of power but strong of will ! 
It passed — a sudden tremor came 
Like ague o'er his giant frame, — 
It was not terror — he had stood 

For hours, with death in grim attendance, 
When moccasins grew stiff with blood. 
And through the clearing's midnight flame, 
Dark, as a storm, the Pequod came, 

His red right arm their strong dependence- 
When thrilling through the forest gloom 
The onset cry of " Metacom !" 

Rang on the red and smoky air ! — 
No — it was agony which passed 
Upon his soul— the strong man's last 

And fearful struggle with despair. 

He turned him to his trustiest one — 
The old and war-tried Annawon — • 
" Brother" — the favored warrior stood 
In hushed and listening attitude — 
" This night the Vision-Spirit hath 

Unrolled the scroll of fate before me ; 
And ere the sunrise cometh. Death 

Will wave his dusky pinion o'er me ! 
Nay, start not — well I know thy faith : 
Thy weapon now may keep its sheath ; 
But when the bodeful morning breaks. 
And the green forest widely wakes 

Unto the roar of English thunder, 
Then, trusted brother, be it thine 
To burst upon the foeman's line 

And rend his serried strength asunder. 
Perchance thyself and yet a few 
Of faithful ones may struggle through. 
And, rallying on the wooded plain. 
Strike deep for vengeance once again. 
Offer up in pale-face blood 
An offering to the Indian's God." 



Mctaconi. 369 



A musket shot — a sharp, quick yell. 

And then the stifled g^roan of pain, 
Told that another red man fell, — 

And blazed a sudden light again 
Across that kingly brow and eye, 
Like lightning on a clouded sky,^ 
And a low growl, like that which thrills 
The hunter of the Eastern hills, 

Ikirst through clenched teeth and rigid lip — 
And when the great chief spoke again. 
His deep voice shook beneath its rein, 

And wrath and grief held fellowship. 

" Brother ! methought when as but now 

I pondered on my nation's wrong, 
With sadness on his shadowy brow 

My father's spirit passed along ! 
He pointed to the far southwest. 

Where sunset's gold was growing dim, 

And seemed to beckon me to him. 
And to the forests of the blest ! — 

My father loved the white men, when 
They were but children, shelterless ; 
For his great spirit at distress 
Melted to woman's tenderness — 
Nor was it given him to know 

That children whom he cherished then 

Would rise at length, like armed men. 
To work his people's overthrow. 
Yet thus it is ; — the God before 

Whose awful shrine the pale ones bow 
Hath frowned upon and given o'er 

The red man to the stranger now ! — 
A few more moons, and there will be 
No gathering to the council-tree ; 
The scorched earth, the blackened log, 

The naked bones of warriors slain, 

Be the sole relics which remain 
Of the once mighty Wampanoag ! 
The forests of our hunting-land. 

With all their old and solemn green. 
Will bow before the Spoiler's axe, 
The plough displace the hunter's tracks. 
And the tall prayer-house steeple stand 

Where the Great Spirit's shrine hath been ! 

" Yet, brother, from this awful hour 
The dying curse of Metacom 



370 AfisccUaiicous. 



Shall linger with abiding" power 

Upon the spoilers of my home. 

The fearful veil of things to come 

By Kitchtan's hand is lifted from 
The shadows of the embryo years ; 

And I can see more clearly through 
Than ever visioned Powwah did, 
For all the future comes unbid 

Yet welcome to my tranced view, 
As battle-yell to warrior-ears ! 

From stream and lake and hunting-hill 
Our tribes may vanish like a dream, 
And even my dark curse may seem 

Like idle winds when Heaven is still — 

No bodeful harbinger of ill, 
But fiercer than the downright thunder 
When yawns the mountain-rock asunder, 
And riven pine and knotted oak 
Are reeling to the fearful stroke, 

That curse shall work its master's will ! 
The bed of yon blue mountain stream 

Shall pour a darker tide than rain — 

The sea shall catch its blood-red stain, 
And broadly on its banks shall gleam 

The steel of those who should be brothers- 
Yea, those whom once fond parent nursed 
Shall meet in strife, like fiends accursed. 
And trample down the once loved form. 
While yet with breathing passion warm, 

As fiercely as they would another's !" 

The morning star sat dimly on 
The lighted eastern horizon — 
The deadly glare of levelled gun 

Came streaking through the twilight haze. 

And naked to its reddest blaze 
A hundred warriors sprang in view : 

One dark red arm was tossed on high — 
One giant shout came hoarsely through 

The clangor and the charging cry, 
Just as across the scattering gloom. 
Red as the naked hand of Doom, 

The English volley hurtled by — 
The arm — the voice of Metacom! — 

One piercing shriek — one vengeful yell, 
Sent like an arrow to the sky, 

Told when the hunter-monarch fell ! 



The Murdered Lady. 37 



THE MURDERED LADY. 

A DARK-HULLED brig at anchor rides 

Within the still and moonlight bay, 
And round its black, portentous sides 

The waves like living creatures play ! 
And close at hand a tall ship lies, 

A voyager from the Spanish Main, 
Laden with gold and merchandise — 

•She '11 ne'er return again ! 

The fisher in his seaward skiff 

Creeps stealthily along the shore 
Within the shadow of the cliff, 

Where keel had never ploughed before 
He turns him from that stranger bark 

And hurries down the silvery bay. 
Where like a demon still and dark, 

She watches o'er her prey. 



The midnight came. — A dash of oars 

Broke on the ocean-stillness then, 
And swept toward the rocky shores 

The fierce wild forms of outlawed men ;- 
The tenants of this fearful ship, 

Grouped strangely in the pale moonlight- 
Dark, iron brow and bearded lip. 

Ghastly with storm and fight. 

They reach the shore,— but who is she, 

The w^hite-robed one they bear along } 
She shrieks — she struggles to be free — 

God shield that gentle one from wrong ; 
It may not be, — those pirate men 

Along the hushed, deserted street 
Have borne her to a narrow glen 

Scarce trod by human feet. 



And there the ruffians murdered her. 

When not an eye, save Heaven's, beheld, 

Ask of the shuddering villager 

What sounds upon the night air sw^elled 



372 Miscellaneous. 



Woman's long shriek of mortal fear — 
Her wild appeal to hearts of stone, 

The oath — the taunt — the brutal jeer — 
The pistol-shot — the groan ! 

With shout and jest and losel song, 

From savage tongues which knew no rein. 
The stained with murder ])assed along 

And sought their ocean-home again ; 
And all the night their revel came 

In hoarse and sullen murmurs on, — 
A yell rang up — a burst of flame — 

The Spanish ship was gone ! 

The morning light came red and fast 

Along the still and blushing sea ; 
The phantoms of the night had passed — 

That ocean-robber — where was she ? 
Her sails were reaching from the wind, 

Her crimson banner-folds were stirred ; 
And ever and anon behind 

Her shouting crew were heard. 

Then came the village-dwellers forth 

And sought with fear the fatal glen ; 
The stain of blood — the tramj)led earth — 

Told where the deed of death had been. 
They found a grave— a new-made one — 

Witii bloody sabres hollowed out, 
And shadowed from the searching sun 

By tall trees round about. 

They left the hapless stranger there ; 

They knev^^ her sleep would be as well 
As if the ])riest had poured his prayer 

Above her, with the funeral-bell. 
The few j)oor rites which man can pay 

Are felt not by the lonely sleeper ; 
The deaf, unconscious ear of clay 

Heeds not the living weeper. 

They tell a tale — those sea-worn men 
Who dwell along that rocky coast — 

Of sights and sounds within the glen, 
Of midnight shriek and gliding ghost. 



The Weird Gathering. 373 

And oh ! if ever from their chill 

And dreamless sleep the dead arise. 
That victim of unhallowed ill 

Might wake to human eyes! 

They say that often when the morn 

Is struggling with the gloomy even, 
And over moon and stars is drawn 

The curtain of a clouded heaven, 
Strange sounds swell up the narrow glen, 

As if that robber-crew were there — 
The hellish laugh — the shouts of men — 

And woman's dying prayer ! 



THE WEIRD GATHERING. 

A TRUMPET in the darkness blown— 

A peal upon the air — 
The church-yard answers to its tone 
With boding shriek and wail and groan- 

The dead are gliding there ! 

It rose upon the still midnight, 
A summons long and clear — 
The wakeful shuddered with affright — 
The dreaming sleeper sprang upright 
And pressed his stunning ear. 

The Indian, where his serpent eye 
Beneath the green-wood shone, 
Started, and tossed his arms on high, 
And answered, with his own wild cry, 
The sky's unearthly tone. 

The wild birds rose in startled flocks 

As the long trumpet swelled ; 
And loudly from their old, gray rocks 
The gaunt, fierce wolf and caverned fox 
In mutual terror yelled. 

There is a wild and haunted glen 

'Twixt Saugus and Naumkeag — 
'T is said of old that wizard-men 
And demons to that spot have been 
To consecrate their league. 



374 



Miscellaneous. 



A fitting place for such as these — 

That small and sterile plain, 
So girt about with tall old trees 
Which rock and groan in every breeze, 

Like spirits cursed with pain. 

It was the witch's trysting-place. 

The wizard's chosen ground, 
Where the accursed of human race 
With demons gathered, face to face. 

By the midnight trumpet's sound. 

And there that night the trumpet rang, 

And rock and hill replied, 
And down the glen strange shadows sprang, 
Mortal and fiend — a wizard gang — 

Seen dimly side by side. 

They gathered there from every land 

That sleepeth in the sun, — 
They came with spell and charm in hand, 
Waiting their Master's high command — • 

Slaves to the Evil One ! 

From islands of the far-off seas — 

From Hecla's ice and flame — 
From where the loud and savage breeze 
Growls through the tall Norwegian trees, 

Seer, witch, and wizard came ! 

And froni the sunny land of palms 

The negro hag was there — 
The Gree-gree, with his Obi charms— 
The Indian, with his tattooed arms 

And wild and streaming hair. 

The Gypsy, with her fierce, dark eyes, 

The worshipper of flame — 
The searcher out of mysteries 
Above a human sacrifice — 

All — all — too-ether came ! 



Nay, look not down that lighted dell. 
Thou startled traveller ! — 



The Weird Gathering. 375 



Thy Christian eye should never dwell 
On gaunt, gray witch and fiend of hell 
And evil Trumpeter ! 

But the traveller turned him from his way, 

For he heard the revelling, 
And saw the red light's wizard ray 
Among the dark-leafed branches play. 

Like an unholy thing. 

He knelt him on the rocks and cast 

A fearful glance beneath ; 
Wizard and hag before him passed, 
Each wilder, fiercer than the last, — 

His heart grew cold as death ! 

He saw the dark-browed Trumpeter, 

In human shape was he; 
And witch and fiend and soicerer. 
With shriek and laugh and curses, were 

Assembled at his knee. 

And lo ! beneath his straining glance 

A light form stole along — 
Free, as if moving to the dance, 
He saw her fairy steps advance 

Toward the evil throng. 

The light along her forehead played — 

A wan, unearthly glare ; 
Her cheek was pale beneath the shade 
The wildness of her tresses made, 

Yet nought of fear was there ! 

Now God have mercy on thy brain, 

Thou stricken traveller ! 
Look on thy victim once again, 
Bethink thee of her wrongs and pain — 

Dost thou remember her ? 

The traveller smote his burning brow, 

For he saw the wronged one there- 
He knew her by her forehead's snow, 
And by her large blue eye below, 
And by her wild, dark hair. 



376 Miscellaneous. 

Slowly, yet firm she held her way, — 

The wizard's song grew still — 
The sorcerer left his elfish play, 
And hideous imp and beldame gray 
Waited the stranger's will. 

A voice came up that place of fear — 

The Trumpeter's hoarse tone : 
" Speak — who art thou that comest here 
With brow baptized and Christian ear, 
Unsummoned and alone?" 

One moment, and a tremor shook 
Her light and graceful frame, — 
It passed, and then her features took 
A fiercer and a haughtier look, 
As thus her answer came : — 

" Spirits of evil — 

Workers of doom ! — 
Lo ! to your revel 

For vengeance I come — 
Vengeance on him 

Who hath blighted my fame ! 
Fill his cup to the brim 

With a curse without name! 
Let his false heart inherit 

The madness of mine. 
And I yield ye my spirit 

And bow at your shrine !" 

A sound — a mingled laugh and yell, 
Went howling fierce and far ; 

A redder light shone through the dell, 

As if the very gates of hell 
Swung suddenly ajar. 

" Breathe then thy curse, thou daring one, 

A low, deep voice replied : 
" Whate'er thou askest shall be done, 
The burthen of thy doom upon 

The false one shall abide." 

The maiden stood erect — her brow 
Grew dark as those around her. 
As burned upon her lip that vow 
Which Christian ear may never know, — 
And the dark fetter bound her! 



The Weird Gathering. 377 

Ay, there she stood — the holy Heaven 

Was looking down on her — 
An Angel from her bright home dri\en- 
A spirit lost and doomed and given 

To tiend and sorcerer ! 

And changed — how changed ! — her aspect grew, 

Fearful and elfish there; 
The warm tinge from her cheek withdrew, 
And one dark spot of blood-red hue 

Burned on her forehead fair. 

Wild from her eye of madness shone 

The baleful fire within, 
As with a shrill and lifted tone 
She made her fearful purpose known 

Before the powers of sin : — 

" Let my curse be upon him — 

The faithless of heart ! 
Let the smiles that have won him 

In frowning depart ! 
Let his last, cherished blossom 

Of sympathy die. 
And the hopes of his bosom 

In shadows go by ! 
Ay, curse him — but keep 

The poor boon of his breath 
Till he sigh for the sleep 

And the quiet of death ! 
Let a viewless one haunt him 

With whisper and jeer, 
And an evil one daunt him 

With phantoms of fear ! 
Be the fiend unforgiving 

That follows his tread ! 
Let him walk with the living. 

Yet gaze on the dead !" 

She ceased The doomed one felt the spell 

Already on his brain ; 
He turned him from the wizard-dell ; 
He prayed to Heaven ; he cursed at hell ; — 

He wept — and all in vain. 

The night was one of mortal fear ; 
The morninof rose to him 



378 Miscella neous. 



Dark as the shroudings of a bier. 
As if the blessed atmosphere. 
Like his own soul, was dim. 

He passed among his fellow-men 

With wild and dreamy air, 
For, whispering in his ear again 
The horrors of the midnight glen, 

The demon found him there. 

And when he would have knelt and prayed 

Amidst his household band, 
An unseen power his spirit stayed, 
And on his moving lip was laid 

A hot and burning hand ! 

The lost one in the solitude 

Of dreams he gazed upon, 
And when the holy morning glowed 
Her dark eye shone, her wild hair flowed 

Between him and the sun ! 

His brain grew wild, — and then he died; 

Yet, ere his heart grew cold, 
To the gray priest who at his side 
The strength of prayer and blessing tried. 

His fearful tale was told. 



They've boimd the witch with many a thong- 

The holy priest is near her ; 
And ever as she moves along, 
A murmur rises fierce and strong 

From those who hate and fear her. 

She 's standing up for sacrifice 

Beneath the gallows-tree ; 
The silent town beneath her lies, 
Above her are the summer skies, 

Far off the quiet sea. 

So young — so frail — so very fair — 

Why should the victim die ? 
Look on her brow ! — the red stain there 
Burns underneath her tangled hair — 

And mark her fiery eye ! 



The Black Fox. ' 379 



A thousand eyes are looking up 

In scorn and hate to her ; 
A bony hand hath coiled the rope, 
And yawns upon the green hill's slope 

The witch's sepulchre ! 

Ha ! she hath spurned both priest and book— 

Her hand is tossed on high — 
Her curse is loud, she will not brook 
The impatient crowd's abiding look — 

Hark ! how she shrieks to die ! 

Up — up — one struggle — all is done ! 

One groan — the deed is wrought ! 
Wo for the wronged and fallen one !^ 
Her corse is blackened in the sun. 

Her spirit — trace it not ! 

THE BLACK FOX. 

It was a cold and cruel night, 

Some fourscore years ago, 
The clouds across the winter sky 

Were scudding to and fro ; 
The air above was cold and keen, 

The earth was white below. 

Around an ancient fireplace 

A happy household drew ; 
The husband and his own goodwife. 

And children not a few ; 
And bent above the spinning-wheel 

The aged grandame too. 

The fire-light reddened all the room, 

It rose so Iiigh and strong, 
And mirth was in each pleasant eye 

Within that household throng ; 
And while the grandame turned her wheel 

The good man hummed a song. 

At length spoke up a fair-haired girl, 

Some seven summers old, 
" Now, grandame, tell the tale again 

Which yesterday you told ; 
About the Black Fox and the men 

Who followed him so bold," 



380 Misccllancoiis. 



" Yes, tell it," said a dark-eyed boy, 
And " Tell it," said his brother ; 

" Just tell the story of the Fox, 
We will not ask another." 

And all the children gathered close 
Around their old grandmother. 

Then lightly in her withered hands 
The grandame turned her reel, 

And when the thread was wound away 
She set aside her wheel, 

And smiled with that peculiar joy 
The old and happy feel. 

" 'T is more than sixty years ago 
Since first the P'ox was seen — 

'T was in the winter of the year. 
When not a leaf was green, 

Save where the dark old hemlock stood 
The naked oaks between. 

*' My father saw the creature first, 

One bitter winter's day — 
It passed so near that he could see 

lis fiery eyeballs play. 
And well he knew an evil thing. 

And foul, had crossed his way. 

" A hunter like my father then 

We never more shall see — 
The mountain-cat was not more swift 

Of eye and foot than he : 
His aim was fatal in the air 

And on the tallest tree. 

" Yet close beneath his ready aim 

The Black Fox hurried on, 
And when the forest echoes mocked 

The sharp voice of his gun. 
The creature gave a frightful yell. 

Long, loud, but only one. 

" And there was something horrible 

And fiendish in that yell ; 
Our good old parson heard it once, 

And I have heard him tell 
That it might well be likened to 

A fearful cry from hell, 



The Black Fox. 381 



" Day after clay that Fox was seen, 
He prowled our forests through, 

Still orliding- wild and spectre-like 
Before the hunter's view ; 

And howling louder than the storm 
When savagely it blew. 

" The Indians, when upon the wind 
That howl rose long and clear, 

Shook their wild heads mysteriously 
And muttered, as in fear ; 

Or veiled their eyes, as if they knew 
An evil thing was near, 

" They said it was a Fox accurst 

By Hobomocko's will, 
That it was once a mighty chief 

Whom battle might not kill. 
But who, for some unspoken crime, 

Was doomed to wander still. 

" That every year, when all the hills 
Were white with winter snow, 

And the tide of Salmon River ran 
The gathering ice below, 

His howl was heard and his form was seen 
Still hurrying to and fro. 

*' At length two gallant hunter youths, 

The boast and pride of all — 
The gayest in the hour of mirth 

The first at danger's call. 
Our playmates at the village school. 

Our partners at the ball— 

" Went forth to hunt the Sable Fox 

Beside that haunted stream. 
Where it so loi-.g had glided like 

The creature of a dream, 
Or like unearthly forms that dance 

Under the ccld moonbeam ! 

" They went away one winter day. 

When all the air was white, 
And thick and hazed with falling snow, 

And blinding to the sight ; 
They bade us never fear for them, 

They would return by night. 



382 Miscellaneous. 



"The nig^ht fell thick and darkly down, 

And still the storm blew on ; 
And yet the hunters came not back, 

Their task was yet undone ; 
Nor came they with their words of cheer. 

Even with the morrow's sun. 

" And then our old men shook their heads, 

And the red Indians told 
Their tales of evil sorcery 

Until our blood ran cold, — 
The stories of their Pow.vvah seers, 

And withered hags of old. 

" They told us that our hunters 

Would never more return — 
That they would hunt for evermore 

Through tangled swamp and fern, 
And that their last and dismal fate 

No mortal ear might learn. 

" And days and weeks passed slowly on. 

And yet they came not back, 
Nor evermore by stream or hill 

Was seen that form of black- 
Alas ! for those who hunted still 

Within its fearful track ! 

" But when the winter passed away. 

And early flowers began 
To bloom along the sunned hill-side, 

And where the waters ran. 
There came unto my father's door 

A melancholy man. 

" His form had not the sign of years. 
And yet his locks were white, 

And in his deej) and restless eye 
There was a fearful light ; 

And from its glance we turned away 
As from an adder's sight. 

" We placed our food before that man, 

So haggard and so wild, — 
He thrust it from his lips as he 

Had been a fretful child ; 
And when we spoke with words of cheer, 

Most bitterly he smiled. 



The White Mountains. t^^^t^ 

'" He smiled, and then a gush of tears, 

And then a fierce, wild look, 
And then he murmured of the Fox 

Which haunted Salmon Brook, 
Until his hearers every one 

With nameless terror shook, 

" He turned away with a frightful cry, 

And hurried madly on, 
As if the dark and spectral thing 

Before his path had gone : 
We called him back, but he heeded not 

The kind and warning tone. 

" He came not back to us again, 

But the Indian hunters said 
That far, where the howling wilderness 

Its leafy tribute shed, 
They found our missing hunters — 

Naked and cold and dead. 

" Their grave they made beneath the shade 

Of the old and solemn wood, 
Where oaks by Time alone hewn down 

For centuries had stood. 
And left them without shroud or prayer 

In the dark solitude. 

" The Indians always shun that grave — 

The wild deer treads not there — 
The green grass is not trampled down 

By catamount or bear — 
The soaring wild-bird turns away, 

Even in the upper air. 

" For people said that every year. 

When winter snows are spread 
All over the face of the frozen earth. 

And the forest leaves are shed, 
The Spectre Fox comes forth and howls 

Above the hunters' bed." 



THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

Gray searcher of the upper air ! 

There 's sunshine on thy ancient walls- 
A crown upon the forehead bare — 

A flashing on thy water-falls — 



384 Miscellaneous. 

A rainbow glory in the cloud, 
Upon thy awful summit bowed, 

Dim relic of the recent storm ! 
And music, from the leafy shroud 

Which wraps in green thy giant form, 
Mellowed and softened from above, 

Steals down upon the listening ear, 
Sweet as the maiden's dream of love. 

With soft tones melting on her ear. 

The time has been, gray mountain, when 

Thy shadows veiled the red man's home 
And over crag and serpent .den. 
And wild gorge, where the steps of men 

In chase or battle might not come, 
The mountain eagle bore on high 

The emblem of the free of soul ; 
And midway in the fearful sky 
Sent back the Indian's battle-cry, 

Or answered to the thunder's roll. 

The wigwam fires have all burned out — 

The moccasin hath left no track — 
Nor wolf nor wild-deer roam about 

The Saco or the Merrimack. 
And thou that liftest up on high 
Thine awful barriers to the sky, 

Art not the haunted mount of old. 
When on each crag of blasted stone 
Some mountain-spirit found a throne. 

And shrieked from out the thick cloud-fold, 
And answered to the Thunderer's cry 
When rolled the cloud of tempest by. 
And jutting rock and riven branch 
Went down before the avalanche. 

The Father of our people then 

Upon thy awful summit trod, 
And the red dwellers of the glen 

Bowed down before the Indian's God. 
There, when His shadow veiled the sky. 

The Thunderer's voice was long and loud. 
And the red flashes of His eye 

Were pictured on the o'erhanging cloud. 

The Spirit moveth there no more, 
Tlie dwellers of the hill have gone, 



TJic Indian' s Talc. 385 

The sacred groves are trampled o'er, 

And footprints mar the altar-stone. 
The white man climbs thy tallest rock 

And hangs him from the mossy steep, 
Where, trembling to the cloud-tire's shock, 
Thy ancient prison-walls unlock, 
And captive waters leap to light. 
And dancing down from height to height, 

Pass onward to the far-off deep. 

Oh. sacred to the Indian seer, 

Oray altar of the days of old ! 
Still are thy rugged features dear. 
As when unto my infant ear 

The legends of the past were told. 
Tales of the downward sweeping Hood, 
When bowed like reeds thy ancient wood, — 

Of armed hand and spectral form, 
Of giants in their misty shroud, 
And voices calling long and loud 

In the drear pauses of the storm ! 
Farewell ! The red man's face is turned 

Toward another hunting ground ; 
For where the council-fire has burned, 

And o'er the sleeping warrior's mound 
Another fire is kindled now : 
Its light is on the white man's brow! 

The hunter race have passed away — 
Ay, vanished like the morning mist. 
Or dew-drops by the sunshine kissed, — 

And wherefore should the red man stay ? 

THE INDIAN'S TALE. 

The War-God did not wake to strife 

The strong men of our forest land. 
No red hand grasped the battle-knife 

At Areouski's high command : — 
We held no war-dance by the dim 

And red light of the creeping flame ; 
Nor warrior yell, nor battle hymn 

Upon the midnight breezes carre. 

There was no portent in the sky, 

No shadow on the round, bright sun, 

With light and mirth and melody 

The long, fair summer days came on. 



386 Miscellaneous. 



We were a happy people then, 
Rejoicing- in our lumter mood ; 

No foot-prints of the pale-faced men 
Had marred our forest solitude. 

The land was ours — this gloiious land — 

With all its wealth of wood and streams ; 
Our warriors strong of heart and hand, 

Our daughters beautiful as dreams. 
When wearied at the thirsty noon, 

We knelt us where the spring gushed up. 
To taste our Father's blessed boon — 

Unlike the white man's poison cup. 

There came unto my father's hut 

A wan, weak creature of distress; 
The red man's door is never shut 

Against the lone and shelterless. 
And when he knelt before his feet, 

My father led the stranger in ; 
He gave him of his hunter meat — 

Alas ! it was a deadly sin ! 

The stranger's voice was not like ours — 

His face at hrst was sadly pale. 
Anon 't was like the yellow flowers 

Which tremble in the meadow gale : 
And when he laid him down to die. 

And murmured of his fatherland, 
My mother wiped his tearful eye, 

My father held his burning hand ! 

He died at last the funeral yell 

Rang upward from his burial sod. 
And the old Powwah knelt to tell 

The tidings to the white man's God ! 
The next day came — my father's brow 

Grew heavy with a fearful pain. 
He did not take his hunting-bow — 

He never sought the woods again ! 

He died even as the white man died ; 

My mother, she was smitten too ; 
My sisters vanished from my side. 

Like diamonds from the sunlit dew. 
And then we heard the Powwahs say 

That God had sent his angel forth 



The Spectre Ship. 387 



To sweep our ancient tribes away. 
And poison and unpeople Earth, 

And it w»s so : from day to day 

The Spit it of the Plague went on — 
And those at morning bhthe and gay 

Were dying at the set of sun. 
They died — our free, bold hunters died — 

The living might not give them graves. 
Save when along the water-side 

They cast them to the hurrying waves. 

The carrion crow, the ravenous beast, 

Turned loathing from the ghastly dead 
Well might they shun the funeral feast 

By that destroying angel spread ! 
One after one the red men fell. 

Our gallant war-tube passed away, 
And I alone am left to tell 

The story of its swift decay. 

Alone — alone — a withered leaf, 

Yet clinging to its naked bough ; 
The pale race scorn the aged chief. 

And I will join my fathers now. 
The spirits of my people bend 

At midnight from the solemn West, 
To me their kindly arms extend. 

To call me to their home of rest ! 



THE SPECTRE SHIP. 

The morning light is breaking forth 

All over the dark blue sea, 
And the waves are changed — they are rich with gold 

As the morning waves should be, 
And the-rismg winds are wandering out 

On their seawaid pinions free. 

The bark is ready, the sails are set, 

And the boat rocks on the shore — 
Say why do the passengers linger yet ? 

Is not the farewell o'er ? 
Do those who enter that gallant ship 

Go forth to return no more .'' 



388 Miscellaneous. 



A wailing rose by the water-side, 

A young, fair girl was there, 
With a face as pale as the face of Death 

When its cofiin-lid is bare ; 
And an eye as strangely beautiful 

As a star in the upper air. 

She leaned on a youthful stranger's arm — 

A tall and silent one — 
Who stood in the very midst of the crowd, 

Yet uttered a word to none ; 
He gazed on the sea and the waiting ship, 

But he gazed on them alone ! 

The fair girl leaned on the stranger's arm, 

And she wept as one in fear. 
But he heeded not the plaintive moan 

And the droppmg of the tear ; 
His eye was iixed on the stirring sea, 

Cold, darkly and severe ! 

The boat was filled — the shore was left — 
The farewell word was said — 

But the vast crov^d lingered still behind 
With an overpowering dread ; 

They feared that stranger and his bride, 
So pale and like the dead. 

And many said that an evil pair 
Among their friends had gone, — 

A demon with his human prey. 
From the quiet graveyard drawn ; 

And a prayer was heard that the innocent 
Might escape the Evil One. 

Away— the good ship sped away, 

Out on the broad high seas, 
The sun upon her path before — 

Behind, the steady breeze — 
And there was nought in sea or sky 

Of fearful auguries. 

The day passed on — the sunlight fell 

All slantwise from the west, 
And then the heavy clouds of storm 

Sat on the ocean's breast ; 
And every swelling billow mourn'd 

Like a living thing distressed. 



The Spectre Ship. 389 

The sun went down among the clouds. 

Tinging with sudden gold, 
The pall-like shadow of the storm, 

On every mighty fold— 
And then the lightning's eye look'd forth 

And the red thunder rolled. 

The storm came down upon the sea, 

In its surpassing dread. 
Rousing the white and broken surge 

Above its rocky bed. 
As if the deep was stirred beneath 

A giant's viewless tread. 

All night the hurricane w^ent on, 

And all along the shore 
The smothered cry of shipwreck'd men 

Blent with the ocean's roar ; 
The gray-haired man had scarcely known 

So wild a night before. 

Morn rose upon a tossing sea. 

The tempest's work was done, 
And freely over land and wave 

Shone out the blessed sun ; 
But where was she — that merchant bark — 

Where had the good ship gone ? 

Men gathered on the shore to watch 

The billows' heavy swell, 
Hoping, yet fearing much, some frail 

Memorial might tell 
The fate of that disastrous ship — 

Of friends they loved so well. 

None came — the billows smoothed away. 

And all was strangely calm. 
As if the very sea had felt 

A necromancer's charm ; 
And not a trace was left behind 
' Of violence and harm. 

The twilight came with sky of gold, 

And curtaining of night — 
And then a sudden cry rang out, 

" A ship — the ship in sight !" 
And lo ! tall masts grew visible 

Within the fading light. 



39° Miscellaneous. 



Near and more near the ship came on, 

With all her broad sails spread — 
The night grew thick, but a phantom light 

Around her path was shed. 
And the gazers shuddered as on she came, 

For against the wind she sped. 

They saw by the dim and baleful glare 

Around that voyager thrown. 
The upright forms of the well-known crew. 

As pale and fixed as stone ; 
And they called to them, but no sound came back 

Save the echoed cry alone. 

The fearful stranger youth was there, 

And clasped in his embrace 
The pale and passing sorrowful 

Gazed wildly in his face. 
Like one who had been wakened from 

The silent burial-place. 

A shudder ran along the crowd. 

And a holy man knelt there, 
On the wet sea-sand, and offered up 

A faint and trembling prayer. 
That God would shield his people from 

The spirits of the air ! 

And lo ! the vision passed away — 

The spectre ship — the crew — 
The stranger and his pallid bride, 

Departed from their view ; 
And nought was left upon the waves 

Beneath the arching blue. 

It passed away, that vision strange. 

Forever from their sight. 
Yet long shall Naumkeag's annals tell 

The story of that night — 
The phantom bark — the ghostly crew — 

The pale, encircling light. 

THE SPECTRE WARRIORS. 

" Away to your arms ! for the foemen are here, 
The yell of the red man is loud on the ear ! 
On — on to the garrison — soldiers away, 
The moccasin's track shall be bloody to-day." 



The Spectre Warriors. 391 



The fortress is reached, they have taken their stand, 
With war-knife in g-irdle, and rifle in hand ; — 
Their wives are behind them, the savage before — 
Will the Puritan fail at his hearth-stone and door ? 

There 's a yell in the forest, unearthly and dread, 
Like the shriek of a fiend o'er the place of the dead; 
Again — how it swells through the forest afar — 
Have the tribes of the fallen uprisen to war ? 

Ha — look ! they are coming — not cautious and slow, 
In the serpent-like mood of the blood-seeking foe. 
Nor stealing in shadow nor hiding in grass* 
But tall and uprightly and sternly they pass. 

" Be ready !" — the watchword has passed on the wall— 
The maidens have shrunk to the innermost hall — 
The rifles are levelled — each head is bowed low — 
Each eye fixes steady — God pity the foe ! 

They are closely at hand ! Ha ! the red flash has broke 
From the garrisoned w^all through a curtain of smoke, 
There 's a yell from the dying — that aiming was true — 
The red man no more shall his hunting pursue ! 

Look, look to the earth, as the smoke rolls away. 
Do the dying and dead on the green herbage lay ? 
What mean those wild glances ? no slaughter is there— 
The red man has gone like the mist on the air ! 

Unharmed as the bodiless air he has gone 
From the war-knife's edge and the ranger's long gun, 
And the Puritan warrior has turned him away 
From the weapons of war, and is kneeling to pray ! 

He fears that the. Evil and Dark One is near. 
On an errand of wrath, with his phantoms of fear ; 
And he knows that the aim of his rifle is vain — 
That the spectres of evil may never be slain ! 

He knows that the Powwah has cunning and skill 
To call up the Spirit of Darkness at will ; 
To waken the dead in their wilderness-graves, 
And summons the demons of forest and waves. 



392 Aliscellancoiii 



And he layeth the weapons of battle aside, 
And forgetteth the strength of his natural pride, 
And he kneels with the priest by his garrisoned door, 
That the spectres of evil may haunt him no more ! 

THE LAST NORRIDGEWOCK. 

She stood beneath the shadow of an oak, 
Grim with uncounted winters, and whose boughs 
Had sheltered in their youth the giant forms 
Of the great chieftain's warriors. She was fair, 
Even to a white man's vision — and she wore 
A blended grace and dignity of mien 
Which might befit the daughter of a king — 
The queenliness of nature. She had all 
The magic of proportion which might haunt 
The dream of some rare painter, or steal in 
Upon the musings of the statuary 
Like an unreal vision. She was dark, — 
There was no play of crimson on her cheek. 
Yet were her features beautiful. Her eye 
Was clear and wild — and brilliant as a beam 
Of the live sunshine ; and her long, dark hair 
Sway'd in rich masses to th' uncjuiet wind. 
The West was glad with sunset. Over all 
The green hills and the wilderness there fell 
A great and sudden glory. Half the sky 
Was full of glorious tints, as if the home 
And fountain of the rainbow were revealed ; 
And through its depth of beauty looked the star 
Of the blest Evening, like an angel's eye. 

The Indian watched the sunset, and her eye 

Glistened one moment ; then a tear fell down, 

For she was dreaming of her fallen race — 

The mighty who had perished — for her creed 

Had taught her that the spirits of the brave 

And beautiful were gathered in the West — 

The Red man's Paradise ; — and then she sang 

Faintly her song of sorrow, with a low 

And half-hushed tone, as if she knew that those 

Who listened were unearthly auditors. 

And that the dead had bowed themselves to hear. 

'•' The moons of autumn wax and wane, the sound of swelling 

floods 
Is borne upon the mournful wind, and broadly on the woods 



The Last Norridgcwock. '^^f)-^ 

The colors of the chang-ing leaves — the fair, frail flowers of frost, 
Before the round and yellow sun most beautiful are tossed. 
The morning breaketh with a clear, bright pencilling of sky, 
And blushes through its golden clouds as the great sun goes 

by; 
And evening lingers in the West — more beautiful than dreams 
Which whisper of the Spirit-land, its wilderness and streams ! 

" A little time — another moon — the forest will be sad — 

The streams will mourn the pleasant light which made their 

journey glad ; 
The morn will faintly lighten up, the sunlight glisten cold, 
And wane into the western sky without its autumn gold. 

" And yet I weep not for the sign of desolation near — 
The ruin of my hunter race may only ask a tear, — 
The wailing streams will laugh again, the naked trees put on 
The beauty of their summer green beneath the summer sun ; 
The autumn cloud will yet again its crimson draperies fold, 
The star of sunset smile again — a diamond set in gold ! 
But never for their forest lake, or for their mountain path, 
The mighty of our race shall leave the hunting ground of 
Death. 

" I know the tale my fathers told — the legend of their fame — 
The glory of our spotless race before the pale ones came — 
When asking fellowship of none, by turns the foe of all, 
The death-bolts of our vengeance fell, as Heaven's own light- 
nings fall ; 
When at the call of Tacomet, my warrior-sire of old, 
The war-shout of a thousand men upon the midnight rolled ; 
And fearless and companionless our warriors strode alone, 
And from the big lake to the sea the green earth was their own. 

"Where are they now? Around their changed and stranger- 
peopled home. 
Full sadly o'er their thousand graves the llowers of autumn 

bloom — 
The bow of strength is buried with the calumut and spear, 
And the spent arrow slumbereth, forgetful of the deer ! 
The last canoe is rotting by the lake it glided o'er, 
When dark-eyed maidens sweetly sang its welcome from the 

shore. 
The foot-prints of the hunter race from all the hills have gone — 
Their offerings to the Spirit-land have left the altar-stone — 
The ashes of the council-fire have no abidins" token — 



394 Miscellaneous. 



The song of war has died away — the Powwah's charm is 

broken — 
The startling war-whoop cometh not upon the loud, clear air — 
The ancient woods are vanishing — the pale men gather there. 

" And who is left to mourn for this ? — a solitary one, 

Whose life is waning into death like yonder setting sun ! 

A broken reed, a faded flower, that lingereth behind, 

To mourn above its fallen race, and wrestle with the wind ! 

Lo ! from the Spirit-land I hear the voices of the blest ; - 

The holy faces of the loved are leaning from the West. 

The mighty and the beautiful — the peerless ones of old — 

They call me to their pleasant sky and to their thrones of gold ; 

Ere the spoilers' eye hath found me, when there are none to 

save — 
Or the evil-hearted pale-face made the free of soul a slave ; 
Ere the step of air grow weary, or the sunny eye be dim, 
The father of my people is calling me to him." 



THE AERIAL OMENS. • 

A LIGHT is troubling Heaven ! — A strange, dull glow 

Is trembling like a fiery veil between 

The blue sky and the earth ; and the far stars 

Glimmer but faintly through it. Day hath left 

No traces of its presence, and the blush 

With which it welcomed the embrace of Night 

Has faded from the sky's blue cheek, as fades 

The blush of human beauty when the tone 

Or look which woke its evidence of love 

Hath passed away forever. Wherefore then 

Burns the strange fire in Heaven } — It is as if 

Nature's last curse — the terrible plague of fire, 

Were working in her elements, and the sky 

Consuming like a vapor. 

Lo — a change ! 
The fiery flashes sink, and all along 
The dim horizon of the fearful North 
Rests a broad crimson, like a sea of blood, 
Untroubled by a wave. And lo — above, 
Bendeth a luminous arch of pale, pure white, 
Clearly contrasted with the blue above 
And the dark red beneath it. Glorious ! 
How like a pathway for the sainted ones — 
The pure and beautiful intelligences 



The Aerial Omens. 395 

Who minister in Heaven, and offer up 

Their praise as incense ; or, Hke that which rose 

Before the pilgrim-prophet, when the tread 

Of the most holy angels brightened it, 

And in his dream the haunted sleeper saw 

The ascending and descending of the blest ! 

Another change. Strange, fier)^ forms uprise 

On the wide arch, and take the throngful shape 

Of warriors gathering to the strife on high, — 

A dreadful marching of infernal shapes, 

Beings of fire with plumes of bloody red. 

With banners flapping o'er their crowded ranks. 

And long swords quivering up against the sky ! 

And now they meet and mingle ; and the ear 

Listens with painful earnestness to catch 

The ring of cloven helmets and the groan 

Of the down-trodden. But there comes no sound. 

Save a low, sullen rush upon the air. 

Such as the unseen wings of spirits make. 

Sweeping the void above us. All is still. 

Yet falls each red sword fiercely, and the hoof 

Of the wild steed is crushing on the breast 

Of the o'erthrown and vanquished. 'T is a strange 

And awful conflict — an unearthly war ! 

It is as if the dead had risen up 

To battle with each other -the stern strife 

Of spirits visible to mortal eyes. 

Steed, plume, and warrior vanish one by one, 

Wavering and changing to unshapely flame ; 

And now across the red and fearful sky 

A long bright flame is trembling, like the sword 

Of the great Angel at the guarded gate 

Of Paradise, when all the sacred groves 

And beautiful flowers of Eden-land blushed red 

Beneath its awful shadow ; and the eye 

Of the lone outcast quailed before its glare. 

As from the immediate questioning of God. 

And men are gazing on that troubled sky 
With most unwonted earnestness, and fair 
And beautiful brows are reddening in the light 
Of that strange vision of the upper air ; 
Even as the dwellers of Jerusalem, 
The leaguered of the Roman, when the sky 
Of Palestine was thronged with fiery shapes, 



396 MiscclUmcous. 



And from Antonio's tower the mailed Jew 
Saw his own image pictured in the air, 
Contending with the heathen ; and the priest 
Beside the Temple's aUar veiled his face 
From that most horrid phantasy, and held 
The censor of his worship with a hand 
Shaken by terror's palsy. 

It has passed — 
And Heaven again is quiet ; and its stars 
Smile down serenely. There is not a stain 
Upon its dream-like loveliness of blue — 
No token of the fiery mystery 
Which made the evening fearful. But the hearts 
Of those who gazed upon it, yet retain 
The shadow of its awe — the chilling fear 
Of its ill-boding aspect. It is deemed 
A revelation of the things to come — 
Of war and its calamities — the storm 
Of the pitched battle, and the midnight strife 
Of heathen inroad — the devouring flame. 
The dripping tomahawk, the naked knife, 
The swart hand twining with the silken locks 
Of the fair girl — the torture, and the bonds 
Of perilous captivity with those 
Who know not mercy, and with whom revenge 
Is swoeter than the cherished gift of life. 



NOTES. 



Note i, page i. 

MoGG Megone, or Hegone, was a leader among the Saco Indians, in the bloody 
war of 1677. He attacked and captured the garrison at Black Point, October i2th 
of that year; and cut off, at the same time, a party of Englishmen near Saco River. 
From a deed signed by this Indian in 1664, and from other circumstances, it seems 
that, previous to the war, he had mingled much with the colonists. On this 
account, he was probably selected by the principal sachems as their agent in the 
treaty signed in November, 1676. 

Note 2, page 3. 

Baron de St. Castine came to Canada in 1644. Leaving his civilized companions, 
he plunged into the great wilderness and settled among the Penobscot Indians, near 
the mouth of their noble river. He here took for his wives the daughters of the 
great ISIodocawando, — the most powerful sachem of the East. His castle was plun- 
dered by Governor Andros, during his reckless administration ; and the enraged 
Baron is supposed to have excited the Indians into open hostility to the English. 

Note 3, page 3. 

The owner and commander of the garrison at Black Point, which Mogg attacked 
and plundered. He was an old man at the period to which the tale relates. 

Note 4, page 3. 

Major Phillips, one of the principal men of the Colony. His garrison sustained 
& long and terrible siege by the savages. As a magistrate and a gentleman, he 
exacted of his plebeian neighbors a remarkable degree of deference. The Court 
Records of the settlement inform us that an individual was fined for the heinous 
offence of saying that " Major Phillips's mare was as lean as an Indian dog." 

Note 5, page 3. 

Captain Harmon, of Georgeana, now York, was, for many years, the terror o f 
the Eastern Indians. In one of his expeditions up the Kennebec River, at the 
head of a party of rangers, he discovered twenty of the savages asleep by a large 
fire. Cautiously creeping towards them until he was certain of his aim, he ordered 
his men to single out their objects. The first discharge killed or mortally wounded 
the whole number of the unconscious sleepers. 

N(jTE 6, page 3. 

Wood Island, near the mouth of the Saco. It was visited by the Sieur de Monts 
and Champlain, in 1603. The following extract, from the journal of the latter, re- 
lates to it: " Having left the Kennebec, we ran along the coast to the westward, 
and cast anchor under a small island, near the mainland, where we saw twenty or 
more natives. I here visited an island, beautifully clothed with a fine growth of 
forest trees, particularly of the oak and walnut ; and overspread with vines, that, in 
their season, produce excellent grapes. We named it the island of Bacchus." — Les 
P'oyages de Sieur Champlain^ Liv. 2, c. 3. 



39^ 



Note 



Note 7, page 3. 



John Bonython was the son of Richard Bonython, Cxent., one of the most 
efficient and able magistrates of the Colony. John proved to be " a degenerate 
plant." In 1635, we find, by the Court Records, that, for some offence, he was 
fined 40J-. In 1640, he was fined for abuse towards R. Gibson, the minister, and 
Mary his wife. Soon after he was fined for disorderly conduct in the house of his 
father. In 1645, the " Great and General Court" adjudged John Bonython out- 
lawed, and incapable of any of his Majesty's laws, and proclaimed him a rebel." 
(Court Records of the Province, 1645.) In 1651, he bade defiance to the laws of 
Massachusetts, and was again outlawed. He acted independently of all law and 
authority; and hence, doubtless, his burlesque title of " The Sagamore of Saco," 
which has come down to the present generation in the following epitaph : — 

" Here lies Bonython ; the Sagamore of Saco, 
He lived arogue, and died a knave, and went to Hobomoko." 

By some means or other, he obtained a large estate. In this poem I have taken 
some liberties with him, not strictly warranted by historical facts, although the 
conduct imputed to hina is in keeping with his general character. Over the last 
years of >iis life lingers a deep obscurity. Even the manner of his death is un- 
certain. He was supposed to have been killed by the Indians ; but this is doubted 
by the able and indefatigable author of the History of Saco and Biddeford. — Part 
I. p. 115. 

Note 8, page 4. 

Foxwell's Brook flows frona a marsh or bog, called the " Heath," in Saco, con- 
taining thirteen hundred acres. On this brook, and surrounded by wild and romantic 
scenery, is a beautiful waterfall, of more than sixty feet. 

Note q, page 6. 

Hiacoomes, the first Christian preacher on Martha's Vineyard ; for a biography 
of whom the reader is referred to Increase Mayhew's account of the Praying Ind- 
ians, 1726. The following is related of him: "One Lord's day, after meeting, 
where Hiacoomes had been preaching, there came in a Powwaw very angry, and 
said, ' I know all the meeting Indians are liars. You say you don't care for the 
Powwaws •,' — then calling two or three of them by name, he railed at them, and 
told them they were deceived, for the Powwaws could kill all the meeting Indians, 
if they set about it. But Hiacoomes told him that he would be in the midst of all 
the Powwaws in the island, and they should do the utmost they could against him; 
and when they should do their worst by their witchcraft to kill him, he would 
without fear set himself against them, by remembering Jehovah. He told them 
also he did put all the Powwaws under his heel. Such was the faith of this good 
man. Nor were these Powwaws ever able to do these Christian Indians any hurt, 
though others were frequently hurt and killed by them.'" — Maykew^ pp. 6, 7, c. i. 

Note id, page 10. 

"The tooth-ache," says Roger Williams in his observations upon the language 
and customs of the New England tribes, " is the only paine which will force their 
stoute hearts to cry." He afterwards remarks that even the Indian women never 
cry as he has heard " some of their men in this paine." 

Note ii, page 12. 

Wiittamuttata, " Let us drink." ll^eckan, " It is sweet." Vide Roger Wil- 
liams's Key to the Indian Language, " in that parte of America called New Eng- 
land." London, 1643, p. 35. 

Note 12, page 13. 

Wctuomanit, — a house god, or demon. " They — the Indians — have given me 
the names of thirty-seven gods which I have, all which in their solemne Worships 
they invocate !" R. Williams's Briefe Observations of the Customs, Manners, Wor- 



Notes. 399 



ships, &c., of the Natives, in Peace and Warre, in Life and Death : on all which is 
added Spiritual Observations, General and Particular, of Chiefe and Special use— 
upon all occasions — to all the English inhabiting these parts ; j'et Pleasant and 
Profitable to the view of all Mene. — p. no, c. 21. 

Note 13, page 16. 

Mt. Desert Island, the Bald Mountain upon which overlooks Frenchman's and 
Penobscot Bay. It was upon this island that the Jesuits made their earliest settle- 
ment. 

Note 14, page 18. 

Father Hennepin, a missionary among the Iroquois, mentions that the Indians 
believed him to be a conjurer, and that they were particularly afraid of a bright silver 
chalice which he had in his possession. " The Indians," says Pere Jerome Lalla- 
mant, " fear us as the greatest sorcerers on earth." 

Note 15, page 19. 

Bomazeen is spoken of by Penhallow, as " the famous warrior and chieftain of 
Norridgewock." He was killed in the attack of the English upon Norridgewock, 
in 1724. 

Note 16, page 20. 

Pere Ralle, or Rasles, was one of the most zealous and indefatigable of that 
band of Jesuit missionaries who, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, 
penetrated the forests of America, with the avowed object of converting the 
heathen. The first religious mission of the Jesuits, to the savages in North 
America, was in 1611. The zeal of the fathers for the conversion of the Indians 
to the Catholic faith knew no bounds. For this, they pkinged into the depths of 
the wilderness; habituated themselves to all the hardships and privations of the 
natives ; suffered cold, hunger, and some of them death itself, by the extremest 
tortures. Pere Brebeuf, after laboring in the cause of his mission for twenty 
years, together with his companion, Pere Lallamant, was burned alive. To these 
might be added the names of those Jesuits who were put to death by the Iroquois, 
—Daniel, Garnier, Buteaux, La Riborerde, Goupil, Constantin, and Liegeouis. 
'* For bed," says Father Lallamant, in his Relation de ce qui s' est dans le pays 
des Hurons, 1640, c. 3, " we have nothing but a miserable piece of bark of a tree ; 
for nourishment, a handful or two of corn, either roasted or soaked in water, which 
seldom satisfies our hunger ; and after all, not venturing to perform even the cere- 
monies of our religion, without being considered as sorcerers." Their success 
among the natives, however, by no means equalled their exertions. Pere Lalla- 
mant says: '"With respect to adult persons, in good health, there is little apparent 
success ; on the contrary, there have been nothing but storms and whirlwinds from 
that quarter." 

Sebastian Ralle established himself, some time about the year 1670, at Norridge- 
wock, where he continued more than forty years. He was accused, and perhaps 
not without justice, of exciting his praying Indians against the English, whom he 
looked upon as the enemies not only of his king, but also of the Catholic religion. 
He was killed by the English, in 1724, at the foot of the cross which his own hands 
had planted. This Indian church was broken up, and its members either killed 
outright or dispersed. 

In a letter written by Ralle to his nephew he gives the following account of his 
church, and his own labors : '^ All my converts repair to the church regularly twice 
every day ; first, very early in the morning, to attend mass, and again in the even- 
ing, to assist in the prayers at sunset. As it is necessary to fix the imagination of 
savages, whose attention is easily distracted, I have composed prayers, calculated 
to inspire them with just sentiments of the august sacrifice of our altars: they 
chant, or at least recite them aloud, during mass. Besides preaching to them on 
Sundays and saints' days, I seldom let a working-day pass, without makinga con- 
cise exhortation, for the purpose of inspiring them with horror at those vices to 
which they are most addicted, or to confirm them in the practice of some particular 
virtue." — Vide Lettres Edijiantcs ct Cur.^ Vol. VI. p. 127. , 



400 



Notes. 



Note 17, page 29. 

The character of Ralle has probably never been correctly delineated. By his 
brethren of the Romish Church, he has been nearly apotheosized. On the other 
hand, our Puritan historians have represented him as a demon in human form, 
lie was undoubtedly sincere in his devotion to the interests of his church, and not 
over-scrupulous as to the means of advancing those interests. " The French," 
says the author of the History of Saco and Biddeford, "after the peace of 1713, 
secretly promised to supply the Indians with arms and ammunition, if they would 
renew hostilities. Their principal agent was the celebrated Ralle, the French 
Jesuit." — p. 215. 

Note 18, page 31. 

Hertel de Rouville was an active and unsparing enemy of the English. He was 
the leader of the combined French and Indian forces which destroyed Deerfield 
and massacred its inhabitants, in 1703. He was afterwards killed in the attack 
upon Haverhill. Tradition says that, on examining his dead body, his head and 
face were found to be perfectly smooth, without the slightest appearance of hair 
or beard. 

NoTii 19, page 32. 
Co-wesass ? — tazvhick ivessaxccii ? Are you afraid ? — why fear you ? 

Note 20, page 37. 

Winnepurkit, otherwise called George, Sachem of Saugus, married a daughter of 
Passaconaway, the great Pennacook chieftain, in 1662. The wedding took place at 
Pennacook (now Concord, N. H.), and the ceremonies closed with a great feast. 
According to the usages of the chiefs, Passaconaway ordered a select number of 
his men to accompany the newly-married couple to the dwelling of the husband, 
where in turn there was another great feast. Some time after, the wife of Winne- 
purkit expressing a desire to visit her father's house, was permitted to go, accom- 
panied by a brave escort of her husband's chief men. But when she wished to 
return, her father sent a messenger to Saugus, informing her husband, and asking 
him to come and take her away. He returned for answer that he had escorted his 
wife to her father's house in a style that became a chief, and that now if she 
wished to return, her father must send her back in the same way. This Passa- 
conaway refused to do, and it is said that here terminated the connection of his 
daughter with the Saugus chief. — Vide Morton s New Canaan. 

Note 21, page 43. 

This was the name which the Indians of New England gave to two or three of 
their principal chiefs, to whom all their inferior sagamores acknowledged alle- 
giance. Passaconaway seems to have been one of these chiefs. His residence was 
at Pennacook. (.Mass. Hist, Coll., Vol. III. pp. 21, 22.) "He was regarded," 
says Hubbard, " as a great sorcerer, and his fame was widely spread. It was said 
of him that he could cause a green leaf to grow in winter, trees to dance, water to 
burn, &c. He was, undoubtedly, one of those shrewd and powerful men whose 
achievements are always regarded by a barbarous people as the result of super- 
natural aid. The Indians gave to such the names of Powahs or Panisees." 

" The Panisees are men of great courage and wisdom, and to these the Devill 
appeareth more familiarly than to others." — ll'ins/o-iu's Relation. 



N( 



])age 47. 



'■ The Indians,'' says Roger ^\'iIliams, " have a god win un they call Wetuomanit, 
who presides over the household." 

Note 23, page 51. 

There are rocks in the river at the Falls of Amoskeag, in the cavities of which, 
tradition says, the Indians formerly stored and concealed their corn. 



Notes. 401 



Note 24, page 55. 

Tlie Spring (Joil. — See Roger IVilliatns^s Key, &c. 

Note 25, page 59. 

"Mat wonck kunna-monee." We shall see thee or her no more. — Vide Roger 
Williams's Key to the Indian Language. 

Note 26, page 59. 

" The Great Smith West God." — See Roger U''illiains''s Observations, &c. 

Note 27, page 61. 

The celebrated Captain Smith, after resigning the government of the Colony in 
Virginia, in his capacity of " Admiral of New England," made a careful survey 
of the coast from Penobscot to Cape Cod, in the summer of 1614. 

Note 28, page 62. 

Lake Winnipiseogee, — The Smile 0/ the Great Spirit, — the source of one of 
the branches of the Merrimack. 

Note 29, page 62. 

Captain Smith gave to the promontorj', now called Cape Ann, the name of 
Tragabizanda, in memory of his young and beautiful mistress of that name, who, 
while he was a captive at Constantinople, like Desdemona, " loved him for the 
dangers he had passed." 

Note 30, page 64. 

Some three or four years since, a fragment of a statue, rudely chiselled from 
dark gray stone, was found in the town of Bradford, on the Merrimack. Its 
origin must be left entirely to conjecture. The fact that the ancient Northmen 
visited New England, some centuries before the discoveries of Columbus, is now 
very generally admitted. 

Note 31, page 87. 

De Soto, in the sixteenth century, penetrated into the wilds of the new world in 
search of gold and the fountain of perpetual youth. 

Note 32, page 103. 

Toussaint L'Ouverture, the black chieftain of Hayti, was a slave on the 
plantation " de Libertas," belonging to M. Bayou. When the rising of the 
negroes took place, in 1791, Toussaint refused to join them until he had aided 
M. Bayou and his family to escape to Baltimore. The white man had discovered 
in Toussaint many noble qualities, and had instructed him in some of the first 
branches of education ; and the preservation of his life was owing to the negro's 
gratitude for this kindriess. 

In 1797, Toussaint L'Ouverture was appointed, by the French government, Gen- 
eral-in-Chief of the armies of St. Domingo, and, as such, signed the Convention 
with General Maitland for the evacuation of the island by the British. From this 
period, until 1801, the island, under the government of Toussaint, was happy, 
tranquilj and prosperous. The miserable attempt of Napoleon to re-establish 
slavery in St. Domingo, although it failed of its intended object, proved fatal to 
the negro chieftain. Treacherously seized by Leclerc, he was hurried on board a 
vessel by night, and conveyed to France, where he was confined in a cold subter- 
ranean dungeon, at Besan^on, where, in April, 1803, he died. The treatment of 
Toussaint finds a parallel only in the murder of the Duke D'Enghien. It was 
the remark of Godwin, in his Lectures, that the West India Islands, since their 
first discovery by Columbus, could not boast of a single name which deserves 
comparison with that of Toussaint L'Ouverture. 



402 ^ JVofcs. 



Note 33, page 109. 

The reader may, perhaps, call to mind the beautiful sonnet of William Words- 
worth, addressed to Toussaint L'Ouverture, during his confinement in France. 

" Toussaint ! — thou most imhappy man of men ! 

Whether the whistling rustic tends his plough 

Within thy hearing, or thou liest now 
Buried in some deep dungeon's earless den ; 
O miserable chieftain ! — where and when 

Wilt thou find patience ?^Yet, die not, do thou 

Wear rather in thy bonds a cheerful brow ; 
Though fallen thyself, never to rise again. 
Live and take comfort. Thou hast left behind 

Powers that will work for thee ; air, earth, and skies, — 
There 's not a breathing of the common wind 

That will forget thee : thou, hast great allies : 
Thy friends are exultations, agonies, 

And love, and man's unconquerable mind." 

Note 34, page 109. 

The French ship Le Rodeur, with a crew of twenty-two men, and with one hun- 
dred and sixty negro slaves, sailed from Bonny, in Africa, April, 1819. On ap- 
proaching the line, a terrible malady broke out, — an obstinate disease of the eyes, 
—contagious, and altogether beyond the resources of medicine. It was aggra- 
vated by the scarcity of water among the slaves (only half a wineglass per day 
being allowed to an individual), and by the extreme impurity of the air in which 
they breathed. By the advice of the physician, they were brought upon deck 
occasionally ; but some of the poor wretches, locking themselves in each other's 
arms, leaped overboard, in the hope, which so universally prevails among them, of 
being swiftly transported to their own homes in Africa. To check this, the cap- 
tain ordered several who were stopped in the attempt to be shot, or hanged, before 
their companions. The disease extended to the crew ; and one after another were 
smitten with it, until only one remained unaffected. Yet even this dreadful 
condition did not preclude calculation : to save the expense of supporting slaves 
rendered unsalable, and to obtain grounds for a claim against the underwriters, 
thirty-six of the negroes^ haviiig become blind^ were thrown into the sea and 
drotuned ! 

In the midst of their dreadful fears lest the solitary individual, whose sight 
remained unaffected, should also be seized with the maladj', a sail was discovered. 
It was the Spanish slaver, Leon. The same disease had been there ; and, horrible 
to tell, all the crew had become blind ! Unable to assist each other, the vessels 
parted. The Spanish ship has never since been heard of. The Rodeur reached 
Guadaloupe on the 21st of June ; the only man who had escaped the disease, and 
had thus been enabled to steer the slaver into port, caught it in three days after its 
arrival. — Speech of M. Benjamin Constant^ in the French Chamber of Deputies y 
June 17, 1820. 

Note 35, page 152. 

The Northern author of the Congressional rule against receiving petitions of the 
people on the subject of Slavery. 

Note 36, page 175. 

Dr. Thacher, surgeon in Scammel's regiment, in his description of the siege of 
Yorktown, says : " The labor on the Virginia plantations is performed altogether 
by a species of the human race cruelly wrested from their native country, and 
doomed to perpetual bondage, while their masters are manfully contending for 
freedom and the natural rights of man. Such is the inconsistency of human 
nature." Eighteen hundred slaves were found at Yorktown, after its surrender, 
and restored to their masters. Well was it said by Dr. Barnes, in his late work on 
Slavery : " No slave was any nearer his freedom after the surrender of Yorktown 
than when Patrick Henry first taught the notes of liberty to echo among the hills 
and vales of Virginia." 



Notes. 403 



Note 37, page 182. 

The rights and liberties affirmed by Magna Charta were deemed of such im- 
portance, in the thirteenth century, that the Bishops, twice a year, with tapers 
burning, and in their pontifical robes, pronounced, in the presence of the king and 
the representatives of the estates of England, the greater excommunication against 
the infringer of that instrument. The imposing ceremony took place in the great 
Hall of Westminster. A copy of the curse, as pronounced in 1253, declares that, 
" by the authority of Almighty God, and the blessed Apostles_ and Martyrs, and 
all the saints in heaven, all those who violate the English liberties, and secretly or 
openly, by deed, word, or counsel, do make statutes, o?- observe them being made, 
against said liberties, are accursed and sequestered from the company of heaven 
and the sacraments of the Holy Church." 

William Penn, in his admirable political pamphlet, " England's Present Inter- 
est Considered," alluding to the curse of the Charter-breakers, says: "lam no 
Roman Catholic, and little value their other curses ; yet I declare I would not for 
the world incur this curse, as every man deservedly doth, who offers violence to 
the fundamental freedom thereby repeated and confirmed." 

Note 38, page 215. 

"■ The manner in which the Waldenses and heretics disseminated their principles 
among the Catholic gentry, was by carrying with them a box of trinkets, or articles 
of dress. Having entered the houses of the gentry and disposed of some of their 
goods, they cautiously intimated that they had commodities far more valuable 
than these, — inestimable jewels, which they would show if they could be protected 
from the clergy. They would then give their purchasers a Bible or Testament ; 
and thereby many were deluded into heresy.'"— 7?. Saccho, 

Note 39, page 255. 

Chalkley Hall, near Frankford, Pa., the residence of Thomas Chalkley, an 
eminent minister of the Friends' denomination. He was one of the early settlers 
of the Colony, and his Journal, which was published in 1749, presents a quaint but 
beautiful picture of a life of unostentatious and simple goodness. He was the 
master of a merchant vessel, and, in his visits to the West Indies and Great Brit- 
ain, omitted no opportunity to labor for the highest interests of his fellow-men. 
During a temporary residence in Philadelphia, in the summer of 1838, the quiet 
and beautiful scenery around the ancient village of Frankford frequently attracted 
me from the heat and bustle of the city. 



Note 40, page 264. 
August. Soliloq. cap. xxxi. " Interrogavi Terram," &c. 



Note 41, page 268. 

For the idea of this line, I am indebted to Emerson, in his inimitable sonnet to 
the Rhodora, — 

" If eyes were made for seeing. 
Then Beauty is its own excuse for being." 

Note 42, page 293. 

Among the earliest converts to the doctrines of Friendr in Scotland was Barclay 
of Ury, an old and distinguished soldier, who had fought under Gustavus Adolphus, 
in Germany. As a Quaker, he became the object of persecution and abuse at the 
hands of the magistrates and the populace. None bore the indignities of the mob 
with greater patience and nobleness of soul than this once proud gentleman and 
soldier. One of his friends, on an occasion of uncommon rudeness, lamented that 
he should be treated so harshly in his old age who had been so honored^ before. 
" I find more satisfaction," said Barclay, " as well as honor, in being thus insulted 
for my religious principles, than when, a few j-ears ago, it was usual for the magis- 
trates, as I passed the city of Aberdeen, to meet me on the road and conduct me 
to public entertainment in their hall, and then escort me out again, to gain my 
favor." 



404 Notes. 

Note 43, page 316. 
Lucy Hooper died at Brooklyn, L. I., on the ist of 8th mo., 1841, aged 24 years. 



Note 44, page 318. 

The last time I saw Dr. Channing was in the summer of 1841, when, in company 
with my English friend, Joseph Sturge, so well known for his philanthropic lahors 
and liberal political opinions, I visited him in his summer residence in Rhode 
Island. In recalling the impressions of that visit, it can scarcely be necessary to 
say, that I have no reference to the peculiar religious opinions of a man whose life, 
beautifully and truly manifested above the atmosphere of sect, is now the world's 
common legacy. 

Note 45, page 324. 

" O vine of Sibmah ! I will weep for thee with the weeping of Jazer V— Jere- 
miah xlviii. 32. 

Note 46, page 330. 

Sophia Sturge, sister of Joseph Sturge, of Birmingham, the President of the 
British Complete Suffrage Association, died in the 6th month, 1845. She was the 
colleague, counsellor, and ever-ready helpmate of her brother in all his vast designs 
of beneficence. The Birmingham Pilot says of her: "Never, perhaps, were the 
active and passive virtues of the human character more harmoniously and beauti- 
fully blended than in this excellent woman." 

Note 47, page 334. 
Winnlpiseogee : " Smile of the Great Spirit." 

Note 48, page 343. 

This legend is the subject of a celebrated picture by Tintoretto, of which Mr. 
Rogers possesses the original sketch . The slave lies on the ground, amid a crowd 
of spectators, who look on, animated by all the various emotions of sympathy, rage, 
terror ; a woman, in front, with a child in her arms, has alwa^'s been admired for 
the lifelike vivacity of her attitude and expression. The executioner holds up the 
broken implements ; St. Mark, with a headlong movement, seems to rush down 
from heaven in haste to save his worshipper. The dramatic grouping in this pic- 
ture is wonderful ; the coloring, in its gorgeous depth and harmony, is, in Mr. 
Rogers's sketch, liner than in the picture. — Mrs. J a)nieson''s Poetry of Sacred and 
Legendary Art., Vol. I. p. 121. 



Note 



49, page 345. 



Pennant, in his " Voyage to the Hebrides," describes the holy well of T.och 
Maree, the waters of which were supposed to effect a miraculous cure of melan- 
choly, trouble, and Insanity. 

Note 50, page 350. 

The writer of these lines Is no enemy of Catholics. He has, on more than one 
occasion, exposed himself to the censures of his Protestant brethren, by his strenu- 
ous endeavors to procure indemnification for the owners of the convent destroj'ed 
near Boston. _He defended the cause of the Irish patriots long before it had be- 
come popular In this country ; and he was one of the first to urge the most liberal 
aid to the suffering and starving population of the Catholic island. The severity 
of his language finds its ample apology In the reluctant confession of one of the 
most eminent Romish priests, the eloquent and devoted Father Ventura. 



I\otcs. 



Note 51, page 352. 



405 



Ebenezer Elliott, the intelligence of whose death has recently reached us, was, to 
the artisans of England, yvhat Burns was to the peasantry of Scotland. His 

Vorn-l„w Rhymes contributed not a little to that overwhelming tide of popular 
opinion and feeling which resulted in the repeal of the tax on bread. Well has the 
eloquent author of 'The Reforms and Reformers of Great Britain" said of him, 

JNot corn-law repealers alone, but all Britons who moisten their scanty bread with 
the sweat of the brow, are largely indebted to his inspiring lays, for the mighty 
bound which the laboring mind of England has taken in our day." 

Note 52, page 354. 

c^tV^^ctl °^ ^'^^ .^ipg'-^.P'iy of the late William Allen, the philanthropic asso- 
ciate of Clarkson and Romilly cannot fail to admire his simple and beautiful record 

,v\n ?Z A^.^u'^'py^ '" ^^^ i'*'^''^ '^^^ ^"^ ^^'9, in the company of his Amer- 
ican tnend, Stephen Grellett. 



